The Hounds Of Baskerville
by AllesandraQuartermaine
Summary: Part 2 If A Different Take SeriesComplete! Sherlock has hit a dead end on his search on Moriarty.They need a holiday.John ignores Sherlock's protests&they go to Baskerville Hall.John soon learns even a holiday with Sherlock is neversimple. S Moran Appear
1. Prologue

**Title: The Hounds Of Baskerville- A Different Take (Part 2 Of A Different Take Universe)**

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters that are part of the BBCverse of Sherlock.**

**Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Original Male&Female Characters**

**Genre: Mystery, Suspense, Drama, Angst, General, Friendship**

**Warnings: Death, Language, Violence**

**Spoilers: The Hounds of Baskerville is the title of the second episode (or episode 5) of Season 2.**

**Summary: It's November. Sherlock has hit a wall in his research on Moriarty. John has had enough. He needs a holiday. They bloody both do. Over-riding Sherlock's objections, John arranges for a holiday at a country getaway called The Baskerville Hall, (an open ended offer that Sherlock had received from a case ages ago) in the Dartmoor area of Devon.**

**Unfortunately, John finds out that even having a holiday with Sherlock Holmes doesn't go the way it should.**

**Authors Note: Okay, did a bit of reading up about the original source, The Hound Of The Baskervilles first to get a good idea of what it was about. So, anyway, I know Moffatt and Gatiss are going to do their own twist to it. Here is my own fanon interpretation/twist. Hope you enjoy.**

* * *

><p><strong>Prologue<strong>

**Location: Dartmoor, Devon**

**Date: November, 1889**

**Time: Unknown. Night**

* * *

><p>The woman races through the woods, running as fast as she can. She ignores the branches scratching her, pausing only to untangle her long dark hair from the branches.<p>

She just wants to get as far away as possible.

To get away from the howls that she hears.

Those same howls she heard when she found her husband's lifeless body on the ground in the stables.

Please Lord, please protect me, she silently sends a prayer as she runs. She runs until she can run no more, collapsing against a tree.

Struggling to breath, she can feel her heart pounding wildly. It sounds so loud in her ears.

_Protect me, Lord_, she sends another prayer to her Creator._ I will never say your name in vain again._

A sob threatens to emerge from her, and she shoves her fist in her mouth to keep it from emerging. She can still hear those horrible howls.

Commanded by a voice only heard in shadows.

**Crack.**

Fear runs through her, and she takes off like a rabbit being hunted. The howls are getting closer, the voice heard once. She runs, until the howls become distant.

She finds a large tree with low branches. Desperation makes her climb, ripping her nightgown and her dressing gown. She doesn't care.

She struggles up the branches, going high enough until she feels safe to stay where she is.

Minutes pass.

She hugs the large branch, hearing the sniffs, the howls, that voice...

It was the voice of the Devil.

Only the Devil could do what had been down to her husband. Those howls belonged to the his Hounds.

Silence comes later. She doesn't know how long she has been up here. But enough time passes.

It's safe.

It's a bit of a struggle climbing down, and eventually there is a slip on the last branch. It is not a long fall, just a couple of feet.

A sharp pain in her backside is worth escaping certain death.

She needs to get back home.

She places a hand on the trunk and gets to her feet. As she straightens, the worst sound is heard.

A soft growl.

A chuckle.

Dread fills her. She has no escape. The young woman closes her eyes, sends another prayer to her Lord. Please forgive me for my sins. She turns, and meets her fate.

* * *

><p><strong>Location: Dartmoor, Devon<strong>

**Date: November, 1909**

**Time: Unknown. Late. Dark.**

* * *

><p>He's running.<p>

He's running through the forest, leaving the sight of his wife's mangled body behind him, trying to outrun the howls.

Coming here was a mistake. He never should have snooped.

His wife paid the price.

And now so will he, not if he doesn't get out danger.

A branch tears the sleeve of his coat, another cuts his cheek. He stops to rip off the coat and then continues running.

Fear is what is keeping him going. He doesn't want to die.. not like how his wife died. Not like this.

God, if you can hear me, help me.

He runs until he is out of breath, until he feels like he cannot run anymore. The howls are distant now. They start to fade.

He slumps against a large tree. His mind races through the events of what just took place.

He never believed in the Devil.

Until now.

He heard the Devil's voice commanding the beasts with the howls. The Devil's Hounds.

His body stills as he hears another howl. This is not faint. This one is not distant.

They are close.

Run.

He runs.

Unfortunately he soon trips over a fallen tree. His knees and palms, badly bruised and cut.

He struggles to get up... then he hears a growl.

And then he feels the breath of another, the growl soft, but almost booming in his ear.

Then he hears the Devil's voice.

He accepts his fate.

* * *

><p><strong>Location: Dartmoor, Devon<strong>

**Date: November, 1929**

**Time: Unknown. Late. Dark.**

* * *

><p>"Come on!"<p>

"Can you hear that?"

"That's why I'm telling you to run!"

The man and woman hear that chilling howl once more, and they no longer stall. They grab the others hand and they run towards the forest.

They run when they go into the trees, racing for their lives.

They both know if those howls catch up to them, that their lives are no more.

They came here for a story.

Now they may end up being part of it.

They run as fast as they can, pushing through branches, and tripping over upturned roots, trying to put distance between them and those hellish howls.

They run until they can run no more.

They slide down to the ground, holding each other up. He thinks they are properly hidden.

"That voice..." She moans.

"I know," he pants.

That voice...

He never believed in the Devil.

Until he heard the voice.

Now, the Devil is after them, with his Hounds leading the way.

"Are you all right?" He asks.

"Fine."

They stay like this, their backs against the other for a long time. He doesn't know how long.

But after a time he doesn't hear any howling.

"I don't hear anything."

"Shall we go then?"

He nods, and gets to his feet, grabbing his companion's hand.

"Next time, remind me not to snoop," he says with a smile, relief making him happy.

"I told you one day your snooping would get you killed."

"I know," he takes her hand and they start walking. Both of them convinced they are safe now.

But that feeling doesn't last long, as they hear a growl behind them.

Then another.

Both of them too close.

They both know they have no chance to run.

His eyes meet hers, and he pulls her tightly against him. He shuts his eyes tightly, as he hears that voice one more time.

They accept their fates.

* * *

><p><strong>Location: Dartmoor, Devon<strong>

**Date: November, 1949**

**Time: Unknown. Late. Dark.**

* * *

><p>She falls down, using her hands to help her scramble backwards.<p>

She can't see them. It's dark.

But she can hear them.

She hears her husband scream, hears the growls and snarls, the voice of the Devil laughing.

Then her husbands screams are no more. She knows deep down he is dead.

She bumps against a fallen tree, and hugs it. Her only hope is that they don't come searching for her.

She never should have pried.

She should never convinced her husband to ask those questions.

Now he is dead, and she's hiding.

She can't run. She has no energy.

She cringes as she hears the howling start again, and covers her ears.

Those unearthly howls... they are the things of nightmares.

They are a nightmare.

_Please God, please, please protect me._

The howls are closer.

She prays that they give up, that they can't find her.

She prays for God to intervene.

The howls stop, but she hears the growling. She feels their breath.

She looks up.

The Devil has won.

She accepts her fate.

* * *

><p><strong>Location: Dartmoor, Devon<strong>

**Date: November, 1969**

**Time: Unknown. Late. Dark.**

* * *

><p>Curiosity killed the cat.<p>

Whoever said that obviously knew what they were talking about.

The man can't see the beasts, he can't see the man behind the voice, but he knows they are there. Circling him.

His back is against the large tree, the tree that the first victim was found eighty years ago, where the second victim was also found sixty years ago.

He didn't know about the deaths until he joined this family.

Then he found the old newspaper clippings. The whispered stories of a curse.

His curiosity got the best of him.

"I'm sorry," he calls out, desperately, trying to spare his own life. "I'm sorry. Please, I promise, I won't tell anyone."

No answer.

Except for the howls and growls.

Stupid. He thought he could solve it.

Apparently he wasn't the only one that tried to.

They are all dead now.

Now he knows why.

"I promise. I promise to forget, to stop looking. Please."

He hears a low laugh then, and a chill goes down his spine.

The voice of the Devil.

The Devil's Hounds are almost to him. Tightening the circle.

His apology is meaningless. His fate is sealed.

He doesn't accept it.

"No! Please, no! No!"

It's the last word he screams before his fate comes to him.

* * *

><p><strong>Location: Dartmoor, Devon<strong>

**Date: November, 1989**

**Time: Unknown. Late. Dark.**

* * *

><p>All she can do is to run.<p>

Her car died on her before she could even start to drive it away.

She should have listened to the warnings about being part of this family.

She should have taken the curse seriously.

She hadn't.

Now the Devil's Hounds were chasing her. Chasing her through the forest where all the earlier victims had been found.

She ran because that was the only option.

But she knows, deep down, that her fate is to join the others.

Accepting it doesn't help.

Desperation makes her run longer, hope fuels her desperation. She hopes that she can escape her fate, even though she has accepted it.

Because you can only outrun the Devil and his Hounds for so long.

She runs, until a bloody upturned root trips her.

She hits the ground.

She struggles to get back up, to continue running.

But the breath, the rank breath, the growling, tells her it's too late.

She closes her eyes.

She accepts her fate.

* * *

><p><strong>Location: Dartmoor, Devon<strong>

**Date: November, 2009**

**Time: Unknown. Late. Dark.**

* * *

><p>"Son of a bitch," he swears, as his mobile shows there is no reception. Of course there isn't, he's in the country, in the woods.<p>

Being chased by..

.

Being chased.

He never should have scoffed at the legend, the curse. He took it for what he thought it was. Let's scare the newcomer to the family.

Yeah, well, he was stupid.

Don't ask questions. Don't investigate.

Yeah, yeah.

Well they shouldn't have told him the story. Even if it was a warning.

Because what did they expect for a reporter to do? Just ignore it all?

Yeah well, he should have.

Because his car is dead, he can't use his mobile to call for help, his wife is in London, and he's hiding in the woods of all places, in the dark. Trying like mad to escape...

His rational mind can barely fathom it.

But it's the only thing he can think of.

The Devil and his Hounds.

He stops running, leaning against the tree, and checks his mobile one more time.

No reception.

"Shite!"

He hears the howls again, and his blood goes cold as fear creeps back into him. He does the only rational thing.

He runs.

Fear propels him.

But an upturned root is his undoing.

He winces at the pain shooting up his knees, feels the blood trickle down the side of his head.

He tries to shake off the pain, tries to stand.

Only to hear the growling.

Then that voice...

He never believed in the Devil until now.

His only hope is that God forgives him for his past sins.

The man opens his eyes, and sees his death before him.

He accepts his fate.


	2. The Holiday

**Title: The Hounds Of Baskerville- A Different Take (Part 2 Of A Different Take Universe)**

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters that are part of the BBCverse of Sherlock.**

**Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Original Male&Female Characters**

**Genre: Mystery, Suspense, Drama, Angst, General, Friendship**

**Warnings: Death, Language, Violence**

**Spoilers: The Hounds of Baskerville is the title of the second episode (or episode 5) of Season 2.**

**Summary: It's November. Sherlock has hit a wall in his research on Moriarty. John has had enough. He needs a holiday. They bloody both do. Over-riding Sherlock's objections, John arranges for a holiday at a country getaway called The Baskerville Hall, (an open ended offer that Sherlock had received from a case ages ago) in the Dartmoor area of Devon. Unfortunately, John finds out that even having a holiday with Sherlock bloody Holmes doesn't go the way it should.**

**All Author Notes will be at the end.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 1- Holiday<strong>

**Location: On the road**

**Date: November 18th, 2010**

**Time: Evening**

* * *

><p>"This is a bad idea."<p>

"Sherlock, you have said that about... oh hell I lost I track about an hour ago."

"I'll say it a lot more if it gets you to turn the car around. We need to go back to London."

"No." John says slowly, trying to keep his concentration on the road in front of him. An already long car drive quickly turned into a maddening long drive.

"We need to return to civilization. Reception is atrocious now, and I cannot even use my laptop. One of my sources could be trying to send us a lead now. Yet, you insist on us coming out to the middle of nowhere-"

"Not exactly the middle of nowhere."

"We're going to a place smack in the middle of Dartmoor Park. It's the middle of nowhere John."

"Sherlock."

"The closes police station is 8.4 miles away."

"How-"

"I looked it up when you were going on ad-nausea about taking a holiday."

"Right. Sherlock, we had to get away. I said it several times now-"

"Twelve times I believe since the beginning of this month. 8 times in October, most of them during the case where we had to bring my mother in for it-"

"That was the experience," John mutters.

"I did warn you meeting my mother would be an experience."

"I know."

"You also said we needed a holiday three times near the end of September So in all you mentioned it twenty-three times."

"Thank you for keeping count," John says sourly.

"You're welcome."

"That was sarcasm."

"I know. I was choosing to ignore it."

John bites back a growl of frustration. "We need this break. Both of us."

"No, we do not."

"Yes we do. Otherwise, I was going to strangle you myself."

Sherlock scoffs, and sulks in his seat, staring out of the window, although John doubts he can see anything in the darkness.

"Sherlock, you've been running yourself ragged. In between cases and trying to find Moriarty. You've almost driven me to the ground. You got sick for a whole week because your body needed the break. We both need a break. A break from murders, bodies, crime, London, Moriarty. We need a break from all of it."

He knew it would be hard to convince the lanky, dark-haired, pale blue-eyed, workaholic sulking in the seat next to him to take a holiday. It was a battle.

"What the hell am I going to do with myself for a nine days?" Sherlock suddenly bursts out. "You wouldn't let me bring my equipment, just a few books. I don't have anything to do any experiments or research-"

"That's the point of this, Sherlock! For God's sake. Baskerville Hall has plenty to do. You saw the brochure yourself. Hell there was a load of them at the flat, thanks to Danielle Baskerville constantly sending you them."

Sherlock explained to him how while living in the city, trying to recover from her husband's mauling death last year, Danielle Baskerville landed herself in a pickle. If it hadn't been for Sherlock, the woman would have gone to prison for several years. She wasn't in much of a good place to offer him much beyond a free of charge stay at the country getaway her family estate became in the seventies.

"We cannot afford to take time away."

"Yes we can." How many times were they going to go round on this? "You haven't been able to find anything beyond what your Interpol contacts sent you and that was in August. Just dead ends. Literally, dead ends," John says grimly. Every time someone approached Sherlock in any way, when they went to go meet them, the source was dead. "

So far the only person who had seen Moriarty's face and lived, besides John and Sherlock, was Molly Hooper.

John and Sherlock couldn't figure out why she was still alive, although one possible theory popped up was that she didn't really know anything critical.

Or that Moriarty was just biding his time when it came to her.

John irritably shoves back the thoughts.

He wasn't suppose think about that. He and Sherlock needed to get their minds off Moriarty and try to relax.

"How much longer is this blasted drive?"

"Already too long," John mutters. "I saw a sign about four miles back saying another twenty-five miles. Shouldn't be too long now."

"Fantastic," his flat-mate says gloomily.

"Sherlock."

"I didn't ask to take this bloody holiday, John Watson. I never wanted it. You stepped over all my objections, booked this with Danielle by going over my head-"

"You mean I did what you normally do."

"You aren't supposed to do things how I do it!"

"You should learn to drive," John mutters, ignoring the comment.

"Waste of time."

"I'm not turning into you Sherlock. Thank God for that. I just know how to go around you, after living with you for almost a year now. Besides not only do we need one, but Lestrade was getting desperate with all your hounding. So not only do we need a break, as I keep saying, but Lestrade needs a break from you."

"John, I'm going to have nothing to do for nine days. Nine days! My brain will rot. Holidays do not matter, the work does."

John wished that Sherlock was asleep. He had just come down from three days of no sleep from the last case they had done, and John took advantage of that by springing the trip on him. Before that John had gotten into several discussions with Sherlock about taking a holiday, all of which were flat-out vetoed, or ignored.

So John went ahead and just quietly booked one. With that last case solved, Sherlock was evidently so tired that he did not protest nor complain, and had fallen asleep in the car that John rented just a few minutes into the drive.

The nice, quiet, peaceful drive lasted exactly two hours.

Sherlock woke up.

It was no longer peaceful nor quiet.

The protests, the arguments, the insults flew.

"This is-"

"If I hear you say it one more time, I will stop this car and push you out of the car. You want to go back to London. Fine, then you can walk back."

"You would make me walk two hundred and three miles?" Sherlock asks in an incredulous tone.

"Yes," John growls, not bothering to ask how he knows the distance. Sherlock does his huff, and sinks further into the seat. Another sulk.

"Sherlock, we're going to the place during a good time of the year, in a way. Danielle said that a good part of the place is in the process of being renovated, so we will be in the main building. The only other people who will be around will be basic staff, Danielle, her brother, his wife, and four other guests. There will be enough space for everyone, you won't be forced to act social. You will have unrestricted access to the library. There will be proper reception for your mobile and laptop. Just please, stop complaining."

He hears a sigh, and then nothing. Blessed silence. No rebuttal, no complaint.

Oh the silence.

"I wasn't complaining."

And the silence is gone.

"What were you doing then?"

"Protesting."

"You were complaining."

"I was _not_."

"Yes, you were." John growls. "Bloody hell, you're like a kid. I don't know how I get into these arguments with you."

"I appeal to the child inside you perhaps?"

John snorts. "I need to concentrate, its black out here and the only light we have is our headlights. From what the map I printed out said, we will be going straight through Dartmoor Park..."

"Yes, the getaway is in the heart of it. The Baskervilles moved to the heart in 1849, after their original estate burned down."

John nods, not surprised Sherlock knows this, then frowns as he swears he sees a couple of lights just up ahead. Then as they get closer he sees hazard lights on a car.

Someone in trouble? Maybe they caught a flat.. need some help with it possibly...

"You might as well stop John, I can see you debating about it."

"Behave," John says as he pulls over to the side of road, stopping about ten feet from the other car. The glare of the headlights obviously getting the traveler's attention.

With his headlights, and the light from the torches they are holding, John sees two women. Both tall, a redhead and a brunette.

He gets out cautiously, a little surprised that Sherlock does as well.

"Need some help?" John calls out.

Both women exchange glances, looking a bit nervous. John doesn't blame them. It's dark, on a road with very little traffic, and two men have stopped, one asking them if they need help. The redhead has a tyre iron in her hand, and John doesn't doubt she'll try to use it if she thinks she and her companion are in trouble.

"We have a couple of torches if you need some extra light."

"Is that what you call a flashlight?" The brunette asks with a definite American accent, although there's a drawl to it he can't place.

John can't help but smile. "Yes. Promise all I want to do is help."

The two women move closer and have a whisper session before separating.

"Could use the help," the redhead says grudgingly, an accent as well but not one John recognizes.

John nods and opens the back seat, taking out the small case with the two torches in it. He bought them the day before, thinking that he and Sherlock may need them.

"Come on," he hands Sherlock one.

"Want me to join in on playing the good Samaritan?" Sherlock says with a drawl, an eyebrow raising.

"It won't kill you to just shine the torch for her," John mutters, and Sherlock chuckles, as they amble over to the women. John can see that the tyre change is halfway in place and that the redhead is doing it herself, the brunette just leaning against the back of the car.

"Thanks," the redhead grunts as they both turn on the torches.

"Told you someone would come along, Lauren," the brunette says.

"Unlike you I was not willing to wait. Not with a storm approaching."

"It shouldn't hit for an hour, according to the radio," John assures her.

"Oh well then perhaps I'll be finished by the time it starts."

"You sure you don't want anymore help than just the torch?"

"John, if she prefers to do it on her own-"

"If you're offering, I'll take it. Damn lug-nuts are on tight," she says moving to the right as John gets down on his knees to help.

"John Watson," he murmurs, introducing himself.

"Lauren Chase," she says with a bit of reluctance.

They talk a little as they work together, and John hears Sherlock sparingly talk with the other girl, Rachel Gordon, he learns from her introduction.

"Rachel, get off your butt and get the spare out," Ms Chase says firmly.

The other woman grumbles and opens the trunk, dragging the tire out. "Damn, it's heave, Lauren."

"Small price to pay since you didn't want to help."

"I don't drive, how am I supposed to know how to change a tire?" She snaps as John and Ms Chase work on getting the spare on.

"I won't answer that," Ms Chase mutters.

It sounds like they argued about this earlier. After the spare is properly in place, John helps the women put the tools back in, or more specifically Ms Chase. As Rachel seems determined to drag more than one to three word responses out of Sherlock.

"So, where are you ladies heading off to?" John asks, as Lauren Chase closes the trunk. He steps back to stand next to Sherlock.

"Baskerville Hall," Sherlock answers for them and both women look at them in surprise.

"I didn't tell you that," Rachel Gordon frowns.

"You didn't have to," Sherlock says coolly. "The sign for the entrance to Dartmoor Park is about five meters ahead of your vehicle. From the looks of luggage in there, the brochure of Baskerville Hall marking the place of the book you had next to you Ms Gordon, that you are both Americans, on holiday, and this road is the only one that directly leads to Baskerville Hall, I deduced it."

John flashes his torch ahead of car and yes, yes indeed there is a sign.

"Your good," Lauren Chase says, sounding a little annoyed. "I assume that means you two are on the way there yourself."

"Yes, I've been dragged into a holiday despite my objections by him."

John rolls his eyes. "We've already gone over this, Sherlock."

"I know."

"How did you know we were Americans, out of curiosity?" Lauren Chase asks.

"Don't get him started," John tries to stem off Sherlock, but it's no use.

"Your vocabulary, speech patterns, accents. Yours is a bit different Ms Chase, as I also detect a German lilt to your accent, which means you have a native German parent. So dual citizenship. You went back and forth from the States and Germany. Ms Gordon on the other hand, has a thick drawl, so from the Southern part of the States... not enough data to know which State."

Silence reigns, only punctuated by the sound of storm clouds gathering strength.

"Okay," Lauren Chase says slowly, "now that's just-"

"Unnerving?" Sherlock supplies, sounding smug, and John closes his eyes and counts to ten. "I know. Well, we best all get into our cars and start driving, as we are going to have a downpour any moment. I doubt very much we want to get caught in it."

* * *

><p><strong>200 Meters Back<strong>

* * *

><p>Cold and hard dark brown eyes watch through the binoculars as John Watson and Sherlock Holmes get into their vehicle after playing Good Samaritan. A smile curves upward.<p>

"Decided to be Good Samaritans did they?"

"Yes," The Watcher lowers the binoculars. "Primarily Watson. Holmes didn't do much."

"Not surprising."

The Watcher keeps a lookout for a bit longer, until the four get into their respective cars and drive off.

The rumble of a storm cloud indicates it's time to get into the car.

"Reception is shite," the other complains as the doors slam shut and the Watcher drives back on the road.

"It'll be better at the Hall."

"Better be. We need to keep him informed."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: While writing I did some research (always important) and had to be creative where to put my own version of Baskerville Hall. I needed a visual of something in order to help me write out the rest of the story. I needed a location that would be isolated, at or in the Dartmoor National Park. So I found it.<strong>

**The Two Bridges Hotel, right in the middle of Dartmoor National Park won the honors to have it's address to be the fictional location of my version of Baskerville Hall Country Getaway. And that will be the only thing that the two will have in common.**


	3. Baskerville Hall

**Title: The Hounds Of Baskerville- A Different Take (Part 2 Of A Different Take Universe)**

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters that are part of the BBCverse of Sherlock.**

**Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Original Male&Female Characters**

**Genre: Mystery, Suspense, Drama, Angst, General, Friendship**

**Warnings: Death, Language, Violence**

**Spoilers: The Hounds of Baskerville is the title of the second episode (or episode 5) of Season 2.**

**Summary: It's November. Sherlock has hit a wall in his research on Moriarty. John has had enough. He needs a holiday. They bloody both do. Over-riding Sherlock's objections, John arranges for a holiday at a country getaway called The Baskerville Hall, (an open ended offer that Sherlock had received from a case ages ago) in the Dartmoor area of Devon. Unfortunately, John finds out that even having a holiday with Sherlock bloody Holmes doesn't go the way it should.**

* * *

><p><strong>Location: Baskerville Hall<strong>

**Time: Late**

**Date: November 18th, 2010**

* * *

><p>A waste of time...<p>

Sherlock does not voice his thoughts this time, having done it plenty earlier. Of course each one was eventually ignored.

"The forest is bloody creepy," he hears John mutter, now driving with even more care, as the rain is making it more difficult to see. The only light visible is their headlights and the American's up ahead of them.

"There should be some lamp posts showing up soon," Sherlock says grudgingly.

John nods. "Hopefully the rain lets up before tomorrow morning."

"Fits the mood."

"You mean it fits your mood."

Sherlock sighs.

"Don't start again."

Sherlock decides not to, mainly because he does not want to test John's threat about pushing him out of the automobile, and making him walk back. Testing threats is all well and good, and can be certainly interesting on the results that come forward, but it is raining. Hard. Plus it is 204 miles back to the flat. With the lack of traffic that Sherlock had seen since he woke up, it would be twenty-five miles until he arrives in Exeter before he could find someone a ride.

Twenty five miles.

In the rain.

No, definitely not a good time to test John's threat.

"Ahh, and let there be light," John murmurs as two lamp posts come into view, followed by some more down the road. With the road more visible, the driving becomes less hazardous and John obviously has an easier time.

Sherlock supposes it would be interesting to see Danielle Baskerville again. Perhaps she would be different. The time he had made her acquaintance, she was grieving the loss of her husband and dealing with being the prime suspect in a murder. She was in her words "an absolute bloody wreck" when he met her. He imagines with a year passing, she will be more herself.

"So the Baskervilles have a history here?" John asks.

"Yes. Some bad luck as well, but I don't know much about that. She didn't go into it, just said her husband was the latest victim of it."

"Mauled to death right?"

Sherlock nods.

"Shame," John says with that trace of sorrow and sympathy he easily recognizes. "I didn't think this place had the type of wildlife that could do that."

"There have been rumors abound of cougars and wolves residing in the park, even though England has no wolves, and there has been no evidence found of cougars nor wolves. But the deaths keep the rumors going."

"Deaths?"

Sherlock smiles, pleased John picked up on that. He only knew of Danielle's husband, so of course he would pick up on the plural. "Many from what I understand, according to one article I found when I did some research on the Baskervilles. But it has all been kept reasonably quiet."

"So what do you know about the Baskervilles then?"

"Are you keeping the conversation going because you do not like the silence, and I am not arguing with you?"

"We're being civil for once today, so yes, I'd like to keep the conversation going."

"I know the basics," Sherlock answers, satisfied with John's answer. He could always count on John to tell him the truth. "They were once the influential family in Devon. The family's history goes back to the late sixteen hundreds. Their original home was on the outliers of Dartmoor Park, in Okehampton. In 1849, there was a massive fire. Destroyed the home, the stables, most of the land. Killed Hugo Baskerville, his wife, three sons and two daughters. Only two sons and one daughter lived of that branch lived, as well as Hugo's own brother Thaddeus. Danielle is the descendent to.."

Sherlock pauses, thinking as he scans his mental files, "Charles Baskerville, one of the remaining sons. Her brother, actually her half-brother, is the descendent to Henry Baskerville. So all the descendents now come from Charles, Henry, or Prudence Baskerville...wait, scratch that. Her line died out in nineteen sixty-nine with the death of Isaac Baskerville, who never married or had children. Thaddeus never had children, nor did he marry."

"Only the basics huh? I thought you would have deleted all of that by now."

"I needed to know about Danielle, and that information was public knowledge."

"So how did Prudence's son die?"

"Mauling."

"I see what you mean about bad luck," John mutters. "Oh, here we are, thank you," Sherlock hears the gratefulness in John's voice. He sees why as the they come into a round parking lot, a large house a few hundred meters away, and with a flash of lightning, a few other buildings as well, with all the signs of them being in the stages of renovation.

The main building has several lights on, and Jon drives around, obviously trying to find a close spot, so they don't have to deal too much with the rain.

Looks like the Americans are doing that as well.

* * *

><p><strong>A Mile Back<strong>

* * *

><p>"The engine's gone."<p>

The Watcher grimaces in disgust, looking at the man and then at the engine in disgust. Both of them were soaked, the umbrella not of any help.

"We're going to have to hoof it."

"Oh come on... can't you fix it?"

"No, not with this bloody rain and lack of light. We don't have much on us, and it's not too much farther. Maybe a mile."

The Watcher swears in disgust, the other wincing in sympathy.

"Sorry."

"Don't apologize to me again or I'll shoot you," The Watcher promises, then tosses the umbrella to side. It wasn't doing any good in the first place.

The other sighs, and opens the car door getting out their luggage.

"I'm tempted to shoot Sherlock Holmes and John Watson now for this bit of bad luck," The Watcher snarls as they start to hoof it down the long stretch of road.

"Maybe the boss will let you."

The Watcher smiles. "Ohhh, if only."

The other laughs.

* * *

><p><strong>Baskerville Hall<strong>

* * *

><p>Sherlock races inside, John right behind him, as well as the two Americans.<p>

"Here you go, dry off with these," an older woman tells him, handing Sherlock a towel, and pointing to a pile on the stand. "Parked as close as you could it seems, but it didn't do any good."

"No, it didn't," Sherlock drawls, wiping the rain off his face, his Belstaff coat soaked as well. He grimaces at the wet feeling as he shrugs it off. John did not fare better either.

"Hope the other two make it all right," the older woman continues. "Let me guess, you are Sherlock Holmes and John Watson."

"Excellent observation."

"Don't get smart with me boy," she says with a smirk. "I doubt very much those two could be a Sherlock or a John," she nods to the women.

Sherlock chuckles, eying the woman. Mid fifties, worked hard, dressed simply. Weathered hands, skin, keys on her hip. Housekeeper. A long time now.

"Eliza?" Sherlock hears Danielle Baskerville call out as they walk further into the large reception and foyer. Simply decorated, with crests adorning the walls, and portraits of past family members.

"Down here, dear," the housekeeper calls out. "Your guests have arrived. All but two."

A patter of feet, and Sherlock sees someone coming down the stairs. A minute later, a tall slender blonde with hazel eyes comes into the foyer. She smiles.

"Hello Sherlock."

"Danielle," Sherlock nods.

"Glad you made it."

"I was not given much of a choice."

She grins. "I know." She looks past him. "You must be John Watson."

"I am," John comes to stand next to Sherlock, holding out his hand. "Nice to finally meet you Ms Baskerville."

"Please, call me Danielle, we spoke enough on the phone, there's no need for formalities." She says warmly. Sherlock sees she is still wearing her wedding ring. Not over her husband's death yet.

"You two are-"

"Rachel Gordon, Lauren Chase," both say at the same time.

"Okay, that's four down, only waiting on the other two. I do hope they aren't having any trouble with the rain. Well anyway, Eliza can you show the women to their rooms, I can show Sherlock and Mr Watson-"

"Doctor," Sherlock interrupts.

Danielle glances back at him. "Pardon?"

"John is a doctor."

"Sherlock-"

"Ah, all right," Danielle speaks up over John's quiet objection to Sherlock's objection. "Well come with me, I can show you and Doctor Watson to your room.. or rooms if you like," she adds with a that matchmaking smile that Mrs Hudson has.

"Rooms," John says, sounding grumpy now. Sherlock smirks as they follow her. He always does when people assume.

"I have a late supper almost ready. I figured everyone would be hungry with all the late night travelling they were doing," Danielle says as she leads them to a staircase.

"I definitely am." John chimes in.

As always.

"If you want to use your mobile or your laptop, I suggest you wait until the storm passes, Sherlock.

We have decent reception until the storms come in, then nothing properly works, not even the telly."

"I assume that will be tomorrow then."

She nods as they get to the landing. "The storm will stop in a few hours though. Oh, I'd hate being the other two out in this storm if they are having trouble. I suppose I should send Gregory to check on them. That's my brother," she adds most likely for John's benefit. "All right, here you go," She taps a door they stop in. "Since we generally don't have guests staying in the main building, there are no electronic locks on the doors, so you'll have to make do with good old-fashioned keys," she drawls dropping said key in Sherlock's hand.

"There is an adjoining bedroom inside," she says to John. "Unfortunately, only way to get to it is through this room. Strange way to build, but that's what my ancestors apparently wanted."

"Thank you."

She nods to John in acknowledgement. "I'll let you two get settled. I'll go hunt down Gregory, see if I can convince to go out in that rain. If you don't come down for dinner, I'll send Eliza to get you. Don't try to hide from her, it never works."

"You could use something to eat," John says as they go inside. Sherlock reaches for a light, finding the switch and turns it on.

He takes in the small sitting room with a telly, and the bedroom itself when he comes further in. He notices a door on the far right. When John opens it, he sees the other bedroom. So the door on the left..

He opens it, and sees a combination bathroom and toilet.

"I'm not-"

"Don't say you're not. You hadn't eaten in those three days with that last case. I should have made you eat before I got you in the car-"

"But you took advantage of my exhaustion."

John grins. "That I did."

"I think you are turning into me, John."

"Doubt it. I have better people skills. We don't need Anderson and Donovan wanting to wallop us both now, do we?"

"You have a point."

* * *

><p><strong>Location:Dining Room<strong>

**Time: Officially 10 pm**

* * *

><p>Danielle made good on her word. As Sherlock and John emerged from their room, the housekeeper Eliza had almost been to their door.<p>

She led them through the ground floor rooms, passing a study, sitting room, a conservatory, and a large kitchen before bringing them into a dining room.

Sherlock looks at the food that at the table, and despite himself, he feels his stomach rumble. He is quite hungry, and now that he is not on a case, he can let himself eat.

"Smells fantastic," John says appreciatively.

"Good. The American women will be joining us soon. Gregory left about ten minutes ago to see if he can find the other two guests. Sherlock, don't worry, I am not asking you to start being nice and talk to all of them."

Sherlock smirks, and takes a seat next to John. He doesn't have to talk to them to know about them. He can listen, observe, and deduce. Simple.

"Of course all you have to do is listen to everyone talk, observe and do your usual," John counters. "We have our social conversation, while you learn everything without being drawn into the conversation. You can continue on being the anti-social madman that you are."

"So nice being understood," Sherlock drawls, hearing Danielle laugh as she goes through the door that must lead to the kitchen they had passed.

Before John can comment, most likely with some retort of course, Sherlock hears the two American woman and then sees them as they enter. Both of them have changed. He could also observe them better with the proper setting.

The redhead, Lauren Chase, has attitude definitely. But it was not an aggressive attitude, simply part of her. Her eyes, a pale green, have the look of a woman who had dealt with a lot. Mid thirties. Skin not smooth, but not weather. Has money, from the look of her clothes and her jewelry, but nothing is flashy or bold. Simple. Doesn't advertise. Profession? Unknown at this point.

Rachel Gordon, the other one, is in her mid twenties. Carefree attitude. Friendly, from the way she kept chatting him up when John helped her companion change the tire. Curious too. Has not been affected by things in life as her friend has. Ink-stains on her fingers.. she handles a pen a lot. He noticed a notebook in her large satchel. Writer. Of what? Unknown at this point.

Danielle and what looks like the cook comes in with a couple more dishes, just as there's the sound of a door crashing open.

"Danielle?"

"Dining room, Gregory."

A trio of voices now. Danielle's brother must have found the other two.

Footsteps. All three coming in here.

"I'm going to bring our other guests to their rooms so they can dry off," Gregory's voice calls out as they get closer. "I told them a later supper would be on by the time we get back, and that hopefully all isn't eaten by the time they are ready to eat."

An older man comes around the corner, hair graying a bit, drenched by the rain. Coming up behind him, Sherlock sees, are two people.

A man, with short black hair, dark grey eyes, six feet tall.

A woman, with what looks like might be chestnut colour hair, despite it being soaked as it's owner is, and dark brown eyes.

"Well brief introductions to start I suppose," Gregory continues. "Everyone this is Viktor Porter," he gestures to the man. Then to the woman, "Sébastienne Moran."


	4. Breakfast And Observations

**Title: The Hounds Of Baskerville- A Different Take (Part 2 Of A Different Take Universe)**

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters that are part of the BBCverse of Sherlock.**

**Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Original Male&Female Characters**

**Genre: Mystery, Suspense, Drama, Angst, General, Friendship**

**Warnings: Death, Language, Violence**

**Spoilers: The Hounds of Baskerville is the title of the second episode (or episode 5) of Season 2.**

**Summary: It's November. Sherlock has hit a wall in his research on Moriarty. John has had enough. He needs a holiday. They bloody both do. Over-riding Sherlock's objections, John arranges for a holiday at a country getaway called The Baskerville Hall, (an open ended offer that Sherlock had received from a case ages ago) in the Dartmoor area of Devon. Unfortunately, John finds out that even having a holiday with Sherlock bloody Holmes doesn't go the way it should.**

**Word Count: 1,834**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 3- Breakfast And Observations<strong>

**Location: Baskerville Hall**

**Time: 9 am**

**Date: November 19th, 2010**

* * *

><p>John comes out of the bathroom, dressed saved for his feet. He rubs his head with the towel once more and then puts it in the laundry bin by the door.<p>

"I see the reception is good this morning," John takes note of Sherlock stretched out on the bed, tapping on the keyboard of his laptop, before making way to his bedroom to get his shoes.

Sherlock doesn't answer, but John didn't expect him to. He hears the water start in the bathroom, and once he puts his shoes on, he heads over to the small sitting room, where the telly is.

Dinner last night was good. Not a lot of conversation, as everyone was clearly tired and not interested in chatting much. Something Sherlock obviously preferred. The two other guests spoke briefly to them before retiring for the night, apparently not interested in food. Sherlock commented that the woman, Moran, is French, which John gathered from the accent and the first name. The man, Viktor Trevor spoke gruffly and with a Welsh accent.

John sits down, and turns on the telly, watching the morning news. He scowls at the weather report. Apparently the days are going to be all sunshine, while the nights are going to storm. Fantastic.

As the reporter goes on to last nights events, there's a knock on the door.

"Oh good, at least one of you is up," Danielle Baskerville greets him when he opens the door.

"Sherlock's washing up."

"All right, the both of you are. Listen breakfast is on the table, I won't be able to join in, I have to check out the guest houses. The workers just arrived. Anyway, if you ride, just ask Eliza to direct you to the stables. There are some walking trails as well if you want to explore, just make sure to stay on the paths. "

"Thank you."

"Your welcome. Enjoy your morning and breakfast." She nods, and John shuts the door.

He turns back around to go back to the telly, and watch the news for a few minutes, when his mobile rings.

"John Watson," he answers it quickly before it can get to the second ring.

"So you did make it there alive," Detective Inspector Lestrade's voice comes on from the other end. "I was sure Sherlock would have killed you the moment he came to in the car."

"He tried, verbally."

"Only way he does. So you did make it there, I presume? Saw the storm on the telly."

"Made it. Only reason Sherlock hasn't gone back to London is because he doesn't want to walk over two hundred miles. Although I imagine he can find a way to get a ride in Exeter."

"That's twenty five miles away, he won't walk that far either. Anyways, just wanted to check in."

John talks to Lestrade for a couple more minutes, then they both end the call. John pockets his mobile, and watches the morning news for about ten minutes before Sherlock comes out.

"Breakfast?"

"I ate dinner."

"Yes, that's all well in good. But it's the next day, Sherlock. It's morning. Time for the most important meal of the day."

"I thought the hounding of my eating habits would have stopped by now. I certainly have heard less of it lately."

"I just know when to pick my battles."

Sherlock makes a noise indicating his irritation, and John just smirks.

"Just in the mood for tea."

"Well, in order to get the tea, we have to go down to breakfast. Only logical, Sherlock."

Sherlock stares at him for a minute, then mutters something under his breath that John doesn't catch. But after a bit of prodding, they are heading downstairs.

When they get to the dining room, they see the young woman Sébastienne Moran and her companion Viktor Porter at the table, eating and drinking, both sitting straight in their chairs.

"Morning," John greets them as Sherlock walks on past to the tea set up on the sideboard.

She nods curtly to him, sipping her tea, and turning back to her companion. John goes over to join Sherlock.

John glances around the board looking for the milk, when a small container is handed to him by Sherlock.

"Thank you," he nods, and notices Sherlock looking for something as well. Ah sugar. John locates the small dish and hands it to Sherlock, who nods as he takes it.

Once they are done doctoring their tea, Sherlock takes a seat, and John looks over the food. He makes a plate for himself, then makes a plate for Sherlock, putting just the right amount that he knows will get eaten. When Sherlock made the point to eat, he had a small appetite. Unless of course it was his three am snack binges.

He sets Sherlock's plate down next to him, and sits down himself. The only sounds being made are from Porter and Moran as they quietly talk. John, despite himself, takes note of how Moran is, and the soldier in him, after noticing a few things, recognizes a fellow soldier.

As if aware he was watching her at that time, Moran looks over at John and their gazes look. Dark brown eyes that are almost black. An uneasy feeling passes through John, unsettling him, until she smiles, and the feeling passes as quickly as it came. She turns back to her companion then, and John turns back to his breakfast.

"I'm already bored."

"Sherlock, don't start."

"Well-"

"You have a huge library to get lost in. There could be books you never even heard of in there."

"That will only occupy my time for only so much of the day and then what?"

John is just moments away from either banging his head on the table or clocking Sherlock.

Before he can respond, or form a response, a mobile rings. It only does it once before John hears a crisp "Moran" and looks over to see the woman stand quickly, and then leave the room in a brisk manner, her tea in the other hand.

Porter nods to them, then quickly leaves.

"French Military."

"Sherlock don't change- what?"

"Moran. French Military. Not quite sure of the branch yet, but give me time."

John was able to figure out the military part himself. "You came to that conclusion-"

"Please, John. I live with you. You may have left the military-"

"Medical discharge," John mutters.

"Yes, yes. You may have left the military, unwillingly that is, but the military has not left you. Her stance, bearing, speech, attitude. She only has one suitcase with her, not a large one, yet she's staying here for nine days. Most women, like the Americans would have two at the least, three or four at the most. Her lack of extra luggage indicates someone who can pack tightly. Plus she has a hardness in her eyes that I see in yours from time to time, although hers is permanent." Sherlock pauses. "Possibly had been on the front line to gain that hardness then. So not a doctor obviously."

"I went on MERT's plenty of times, so I did see some front line action," John murmurs.

"MERT?"

"Medical Emergency Rescue Team."

John sees Sherlock still and look at him with a pause, as if those wheels in that mind of his had been stopped abruptly. He remembers seeing that once, way back when Sherlock asked him what he would say if he was dying.

He paused, but after a few seconds, continued on. John could see though he had done something most probably hadn't been able to do before. Stall Sherlock's mind. Even if it was for a few seconds.

"So you gathered all of that in the maybe five minutes we've had of being in their presence?"

"John, I gathered you were in Afghanistan or Iraq seconds after I asked to borrow your mobile. But I have not finished. Porter on the other hand, not military, but clearly follows her lead. She was in front of him when they were introduced last night, and he followed her. Same this morning. Most people would just stay and finish their breakfast if their companion gets a phone call and leaves the room. No, he automatically followed her. "

John takes a deep breath. "Right..."

"Make me curious on what they are doing here. Not for relaxing. For from it. Woman like her, with the hardness that I just barely got a look into, she doesn't relax." Sherlock seems to think on that for a minute, then shakes his head. "Either way, she's military, french. Name spells it out for you. Parents clearly wanted a boy, had the name picked out. Sebastian. But as seen, they had a girl, stuck with the name, but feminized it. So there you have it. Didn't you see it? I would have thought you would have. Recognized it at least.

"I did."

Sherlock smiles. "Well I am right."

John grins. "Most likely. But you would need confirmation."

"I have a source in the French Government.. only takes a phone call-

"No, Sherlock. No snooping."

"It's not snooping. I'm merely curious. Nothing wrong with having a curious mind."

"Your curiosity might as well be snooping. Don't do it."

"You are no fun at times you know that?"

"One of us apparently has to be the parent," John mutters under his breath.

"I heard that."

"Clearly."

"Eat your breakfast, Sherlock."

"I have."

John looks at Sherlock's plate, and sees... yes, he did eat.

"How-" John didn't see him put a thing in his mouth while they were talking.

"Magic," Sherlock drawls. "Now eat yours, I'm going to go have a look at that library."

* * *

><p><strong>Outside- Guest House<strong>

* * *

><p>"I don't want to hear it, Gregory."<p>

"Danielle-"

"Bloody hell Gregory, you know better!" She growls out, dragging him to the side so the workers won't hear them having it out. His mutinous look reminds her of her uncle, his father, the man that her mother had an affair with before marrying her father.

"You never believed in the family curse, why start now?"

"I started the moment my husbands body was found mauled to death," she snaps. "After doing what you are trying to do. Dig up ancient history."

"Ancient history that seems to keep causing the deaths of people who look into it!"

"Which is why we should both keep our noses out if it," she hisses. "Uncle Isaac's brother in law, Mother, and now Michael. Now you want to stir things up? Forget it. I'm not burying you. You insist, then I'm kicking you out. You and your wife can go back home."

"Danielle."

"No. Not another word on it. End it. Now."


	5. The Curse Of The Baskervilles

**Title: The Hounds Of Baskerville- A Different Take (Part 2 Of A Different Take Universe)**

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters that are part of the BBCverse of Sherlock.**

**Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Original Male&Female Characters**

**Genre: Mystery, Suspense, Drama, Angst, General, Friendship**

**Warnings: Death, Language, Violence**

**Spoilers: The Hounds of Baskerville is the title of the second episode (or episode 5) of Season 2.**

**Summary: It's November. Sherlock has hit a wall in his research on Moriarty. John has had enough. He needs a holiday. They bloody both do. Over-riding Sherlock's objections, John arranges for a holiday at a country getaway called The Baskerville Hall, (an open ended offer that Sherlock had received from a case ages ago) in the Dartmoor area of Devon. Unfortunately, John finds out that even having a holiday with Sherlock bloody Holmes doesn't go the way it should.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 4<strong>

** The Curse Of The Baskervilles**

**Location: Dining Room of Baskerville Hall**

**Time: 7 pm**

**Date: November 19th, 2010**

* * *

><p>"I'm starving," Sherlock hears Lauren Chase exclaim. Rachel Gordon soon follows. The storm had driven everyone back inside it seems.<p>

Sherlock had emerged from the library just as John was coming for him, saying that dinner was ready, and yes he was going to eat.

So apparently, while he was not going being forced to be social, John will get on him, once more to eat. He did not know which was worse.

He did not ask what John did. More than likely, he explored the grounds, went on the walking trails.

"Dinner will be out in a minute." Eliza Barrymore the housekeeper states as she comes out of the kitchen.

"Will the Baskervilles be joining us?" Rachel Gordon asks curiously.

"Apologies, but no. They had to go to Exeter for some more supplies," she explains as Viktor Porter and Sébastienne Moran come in, talking quietly to each other as they take their seats. Sherlock notices that he could hear Porter walking.. he had a particularly heavy walk, but Sébastienne Moran moves with a silent step.. one that was unquestionably trained.

As they all sit down, Eliza Barrymore goes back into the kitchen, to check on the food.

"Surprised you made it to dinner," John comments to Sherlock.

"Nothing else to do."

"Could have tried out the trails. Rather nice."

"Boring."

John rolls his eyes, and Sherlock smirks, relaxing in his chair as the two Americans whisper among each other.

He notices Moran is looking at her mobile, scowling at most likely the horrible reception that afflicted Sherlock's laptop earlier. Porter just looks... bored. And dull. Dreadfully dull.

The doors open again and soon the table is laid with a large roast chicken, several vegetable dishes and potato dishes, and hot cross buns.

"Everything smells and looks so good, just like last night," Lauren Chase murmurs, although Sherlock notices she does not look at the chicken. She did not touch the meat last night either.

Vegetarian.

"Well eat up then, don't want anyone to starve," Eliza Barrymore says with a wide smile, her accent a bit thicker now, Sherlock notices. "Enjoy, if you need anything I will be-"

"Oh, no Ms Barrymore, please join us," Rachel Gordon attempts to persuade. "No need for you to go, besides you must be tired from being on your feet all day and hungry too."

The housekeeper puts up a token protest, expected, but gives in and takes a seat.

Dinner begins.

* * *

><p><strong>Half Hour Later<strong>

* * *

><p>Sherlock picks at his plate having eaten just a little, mainly to appease John. Conversation, mainly between the Americans and the housekeeper, continues.<p>

"So have you worked for the Baskervilles long?" Lauren Chase asks.

"Since I was a girl, about nineteen. My family has always worked for the Baskervilles, as far back as the eighteenth century."

"So you must know some stories then," Lauren says, and Sherlock catches the casual tone, as if she's trying not come across as too curious.

The older woman smiles patiently. "I have indeed, young woman. But if you want to know about one in particular, then ask."

The women exchange glances.

"Can you tell us about the Curse?" Rachel Gordon asks.

At this Sherlock can see that interest sparks to life in Moran's eyes, eyes that until then had shown nothing but disinterest and the hardness he has seen since he met her.

"Ahhh, you're asking about the Curse of the Baskervilles?" Eliza drawls with a now heavier accent and huskier tone of voice.

"We're writing about urban legends around the world, came across an article about this place, it's the main reason we came. We wanted to wait until the Baskervilles were not here, out of respect," Rachel Gordon says in a rush. "Since it wasn't too long-"

"Yes, yes. Terrible that is. So you like horror stories, my dears?"

"Definitely," both say at the same time.

The housekeeper looks around the table. "Everyone else want to hear?"

Polite murmurs are heard all around, even from John. Sherlock has only heard a little here and there, never the whole tale. Of course, curses are not real, but he always thought that there is usually truth behind the origins, just like myths and legends. It just so happens throughout time everything gets distorted.

"Well, it all goes back to the Baskerville Fire," the housekeeper starts, her fingers trailing across the table, her voice lowering.

For the effect, of course.

"The official story is that a candle still lit started it, and a wind made it even worse. Everyone gathered to try to put it out, it had been too late. Everything nearly destroyed, only some ruins which are still there."

"What's the other story?"

Without looking, he knew it was Chase that asked.

"One of the survivors, the daughter, told a tale that horrified so many that they hushed it up quickly," the housekeeper intones. Sherlock admires the way she does it, seeing that she has done this plenty of times before.

"She said she heard unearthly howls, followed by screams of her mother. When they quieted, she claimed to have heard a chilling voice echoing through the corridors, throughout the house. There was a voice so chilling it froze her to the spot, unable to keep her from leaving her bed. Then her father's voice was heard, and the howls sounded once more. Amongst her fathers screams, she said she heard laughing, and that the fire started from out of nowhere, as if brought by the laughter and the howls. Evelyn Baskerville insisted her parents did not die out of a tragic accident, but been murdered, savagely murdered by what she called The Devil and His Hounds."

Silence reigned over the dinner table. Sherlock noticed that Moran was only acting interested, most likely being polite. He looks over at John, who is paying apt attention. Perhaps it was due to the housekeeper's flair for the dramatic. Sherlock always appreciated those who had that flair and knew how to use it.

A clap of thunder is heard then, the lights flicker in the dining room, causing a few in the room to jump.

"It appears that nature decided to provide the special effects," a nervous laugh comes from Rachel Gordon. "Go on, Eliza, please."

The older woman nods. "No one wanted to believe Evelyn Baskerville, and her brothers forbid her from speaking of it publicly. But in private, she insisted on it, never backing down from her claims until the day she died."

"So the fire is the curse?"

"Not exactly, my dears. It's what happened after the fire, every twenty years."

"Oh?"

"Yes. The first victim of the curse was the unfortunate Elizabeth Baskerville, in 1889. Just five months after her marriage. Her husband was curious about what happened to the family home, and wanted to write about it. He started snooping, asking questions, he even tracked down Evelyn Baskerville, who was hidden away by her family. Then...days after he had talked to her, the curse began. Stable hands found Elizabeth's husbands body in the stables, torn to pieces, mauled to death. They could not find Elizabeth anywhere on the grounds, and a servant came forward, saying from the house they say her running. They found her hours later, dead in this forest, just two miles from here at the Red Tree, so-called that as it's bark darkened by her blood. She had been as badly as her husband. The servant, who had seen Elizabeth running for her life, claimed to have heard unearthly howls just moments before. I imagine he would have also claimed to hearing the Devil's voice if asked. When Evelyn Baskerville heard of the deaths, 'It was Him! He did it! He sent the hounds and killed them both! The Devil has returned!' She had cried out, then died just minutes after yelling it."

Another clap of thunder then, and this time the lights went out, causing both women to cry out themselves. Sherlock feels John start next to him.

A compelling story indeed.

He hears moving around, and there's a bit of light now, shining on a candle. The housekeeper uses the candle to light up the two on the table, then goes around to light up the other candles.

Sherlock noticed that Moran and her companion had not made a sound, nor moved throughout most of the story so far.

Eliza Barrymore sits back down, clearing her throat.

"Go on," this time it was Lauren Chase.

"Are you sure?"

"Very," both women say at the same time, and Sherlock hears John chuckles.

"Quite the storyteller," he hears John murmur to him.

"She's had practice, obviously."

"The authorities deemed it an animal mauling, closing the case. No need to investigate further. It was never spoken of again, although rumors abound that if anyone married into the family they, the story was then told to them as a warning, never ask questions. For twenty years, nothing happened. Then, in 1909 another set of deaths. This time of Edward Baskerville and his wife of three years. Edward became curious about the fire, about the deaths of Elizabeth and her husband. So once again, the prying began, the questions. He found Evelyn Baskerville's journals in the attic, and started reading them, reading her claims of the Devil and His Hounds. His investigation lasted three days. The fourth night, he was found mauled to death in the forest, at the same tree Elizabeth died next to. His wife's body was found by one of the horses. The horse untouched. Another Baskerville relative, while holding the couples now orphaned child, said she heard Edward yelling about the Devil, and running as his life depended on it. She also claimed to hear the howls, saying they chilled her to the bone. The curse struck again."

Sherlock's imagination starts to run. People were dying who wanted to know about the fire... What was the truth behind the fire?

Sherlock shakes his head. Superstition.

The older woman continues with her story. "Another twenty years go by. The year, 1929. This would be only case the curse has struck those who are not family, but friends of the family. Tobias Winthrop and his wife Cecily Winthrop. Journalists looking for a story, they certainly got more than they expected. They had not even began their investigation before meeting their grisly deaths. They had dinner with the family, and then planned on going to ruins. They never made it," she intoned.

"Authorities deemed it an animal mauling of course, even though we do not have wolves here, nor any wild cats-"

"Just fuels the rumors that there are."

The housekeeper smiles, and it looks almost smug to Sherlock. "So, we move on with our story. Another twenty years. 1949. Violet Baskerville, youngest of the current family line living there. Only a mere twenty years old, and recently married. She wanted to know the story, know the facts, but couldn't bring herself to ask them. So she had her husband do it. Their deaths were heard by others, several witnesses all claiming to hear the howls of the Devils Hounds. They never saw anything, except for Violet's husband's mauled body. Searchers later found Violet in the same condition. Whispers of the curse once more, claiming more victims."

"Poor girl," Sherlock hears John murmur.

"It is 1969 now," the housekeeper continues, obviously enjoying the rapt attention she was getting from the Americans, and it seems from John. "Joseph Granderson, recently married to Isaac Baskerville's sister. Isaac's brothers would eventually be the fathers to Danielle and Gregory, mind you. But Katherine Baskerville's husband found out about the deaths, found the newspaper clippings of them, heard about the curse, and decided to look into it, wanted to prove that there was no curse. Once more, he tempts it, and another pays the price. The third night he was found, another mauling, right at the Red Tree. His wife was in town the past couple days, she had been spared. Once more whispers from others staying at the home heard the unearthly howling. The Devil and His Hounds claim another victim."

"One would think people would start getting the hint," Sherlock hears Sébastienne Moran say dryly. In the candlelight, he sees the fascination she had in the beginning is gone now, replaced by boredom.

"Time passes. People forget," Sherlock counters.

"People have short memories."

He has to agree with her point. "True, a fair amount do, yes."

"Sherlock."

"Yes, John I'll stop so Ms Barrymore can finish. I didn't know you were into horror stories."

He hears a huff. Then the housekeeper chuckles.

"Ms Moran is correct, people should have gotten the hint. But once more, twenty years pass. Once more another takes up the quest to find out the truth, so to speak. This time, Theresa Baskerville. Quite the scandal she brought with her. Lover to one of Isaac's brothers, bore his son without marriage, then years later bedded the other son, and married him, giving birth to our own Danielle mere months later. Then her curiosity got the best of her, and there were rumors that she found something. She had bounded into this very dining hall one night, alive with excitement, telling Danielle's father she found something extraordinary that would change the history of the Baskervilles, and promised to tell him later when he finished dinner."

"She never told him of course," Sherlock drawls.

"Care to finish the story, dear boy?"

"Oh no, Mrs Barrymore, you are far better storyteller than I am."

"Don't sass me," she says with a smirk, and Sherlock chuckles. "Nathaniel Baskerville heard the howls just a mere two hours later. He remembered the stories then. Later when asked why he didn't attempt searching for her then, he said, "She was already dead, I would have only delayed it." Of course, privately he admitted he would have most likely died himself, and he had a daughter to look after. One parent would be better than none."

"Sounded like a reasonable man," Porter speaks up in his gruff like voice, then grunting as if someone nudged him in the ribs to shut him up. Moran, Sherlock decides without looking.

"That was Nathaniel. Coldly practical." Eliza Barrymore clears her throat. "Then the most unfortunate recent tragedy of last year. Michael Norris. Our Danielle's husband. Another journalist who let his curiosity get the best of him. He was a decent man, I liked him. Very unfortunate. He was found in the forest as well, four days after deciding to look into all the deaths and the fire. The one thing that links these tragedies together my dears would be the month. The fire, in November. And every time someone started to look into it, it was in November. Every death in November."

"Should be the Curse of November then."

"Sherlock."

"I can't help it."

"Try."

The housekeeper chuckles at the two of them. "Ah the practical ones. So here we are, at the end of the tale. A fire that started it all. Every twenty years... one or two die. All in all, ten victims fall to the curse. The curse.. The Curse Of The Baskervilles."


	6. Things Are Set In Motion

**Title: The Hounds Of Baskerville- A Different Take (Part 2 Of A Different Take Universe)**

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters that are part of the BBCverse of Sherlock.**

**Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Original Male&Female Characters**

**Genre: Mystery, Suspense, Drama, Angst, General, Friendship**

**Warnings: Death, Language, Violence, Refrences To Drug Use in This Chapter**

**Spoilers: The Hounds of Baskerville is the title of the second episode (or episode 5) of Season 2.**

**Summary: It's November. Sherlock has hit a wall in his research on Moriarty. John has had enough. He needs a holiday. They bloody both do. Over-riding Sherlock's objections, John arranges for a holiday at a country getaway called The Baskerville Hall, (an open ended offer that Sherlock had received from a case ages ago) in the Dartmoor area of Devon. Unfortunately, John finds out that even having a holiday with Sherlock bloody Holmes doesn't go the way it should.**

**Author's Note: Thanks to all those who have commented. As always, feedback and reviews are appreciated and eaten up. I love knowing what people think. Makes all my writing definitely worth it. :) **

**As a note as well, to anyone who has just come across this story, this one is part of a series. The first part is my A Study Of Living With Sherlock Holmes, and then onto A Scandal In Belgravia. I recommend reading those two first, before reading this one. **

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 5- <strong>

**Things Are Set Into Motion**

**Location: Bedroom**

**Time: 1 am**

**Date: November 20th, 2010**

* * *

><p>Sherlock stares up at the ceiling, stretched out on the bed, unable to sleep.<p>

He can hear John's steady breathing in the other bedroom. So far no indicators of a restless sleep. No sounds emerging of one dealing with nightmares tonight.

Good.

However, Sherlock's mind is wide awake. Active. Thinking.

Always thinking.

He's never been able to turn it off.

Right now he is going over the story that the housekeeper had enjoyed telling at dinner.

He ignores the exaggerated parts of it, clearly put in there for effect. The Devil and His Hounds. Howling. People claiming to hear it.

Hardly. Over active imaginations definitely. One claims to have heard, soon others will to. A form of mass hysteria.

However, it was quite coincidental that so many people died just days looking into what happened at the original Baskerville estate.

What was it that someone would kill over? Actually more than just one. At least three people, generations apart, who know the truth.

Passed on perhaps.

They kill to protect the secret and the past.

But how?

The problematic bit is the manner in how they all died. This park of course does have plenty of wildlife. But no wolves, cougars, or other wild cats that could do such a thing.

Hounds... a pack of killer dogs maybe, being held somewhere, trained to kill. When a hound howls if heard just right, in the proper setting it can certainly be called unnerving. Along with the proper chilling voice, commanding them.

That theory would not be implausible.

The detective in Sherlock wants to research this, wants to find Evelyn Baskerville's journals, find the other evidence that others must have found or were about to find. He wants to go through all the articles, pour through them.

Yet, he knows John will be upset if he does.

John, who wanted them to have a quiet holiday, a break from the cases they had been on. A few of their cases were quite intense. He could understand John's need to have a holiday.

Taking a Holiday always comes with problems. Because his boredom is growing. If nothing properly comes up for him to keep it at bay, then there are going to be some issues at hand.

It's why he shot up the wall with John's gun before the five pips case, the bombs, Moriarty. As he had muttered that night a few days after closing the Belgravia case, it was either shooting up the wall, or shooting up the cocaine he had hidden in the flat. The boredom was making him verge on desperate.

He did not like being desperate.

Sherlock did not want to travel down the path of using. Despite what the cocaine did for him, (making it tolerable around the supreme idiots of London) it was not a good path to travel. He never deleted those memories of his using, (or two other memories in the hospital after the last time he had shot up)knowing they were important.

To stay in control.

He was inot/i an addict. Addicts have no control. Addicts are weak. Addicts have no willpower.

He has plenty of willpower and control. He, Sherlock Holmes, would not go so low in the dregs of life to be an addict. He was once a user, true. He will admit that. But he did not rely on it. He used it when he the boredom was impossible. It was a unique stimulant to his hard drive, helped bring things into focus without the harshness that comes with everything today.

So no matter what those idiots at the rehabilitation centers thought, or what Mycroft thought, or what Mummy thought (He could not blame her for her thoughts at that time. He was in a rather bad way when she finally voiced her opinion to him. But that was only because his dealer decided to try to kill him with a tainted shot of cocaine.), or what Lestrade thought, he was not an addict.

John would think he was.. or is. That whole 'once an addict, always an addict' phrase. He of course is bias, as he has a sister who is an alcoholic.

Sherlock frowns, not caring for this train of thought and he pushes it away.

He has control. He has will power. He is strong. He has stayed clean for four years, two months, and a week.

The only time the itch, the crawling desire to use just one more time comes around is when he is dreadfully bored, with nothing to solve or do.

The urge to investigate the Curse comes back with a vengeance. A puzzle. Something to solve.

I could find the journals of Evelyn Baskerville.. the articles.. visit the ruins...

A snore from the other bedroom interrupts his thoughts. Reminding Sherlock of why he should not investigate.

He sighs.

He will have to find something else other than the Curse Of The Baskervilles.

* * *

><p><strong>Location: Moran's Bedroom<strong>

**Time: 2 am**

**Date: November 20th, 2010**

* * *

><p>Sébastienne Moran comes out of the bathroom, drying her hair with the towel, then tosses the towel into the laundry basket.<p>

Habit makes her check her mobile.

Reception is still shite.

She snorts in disgust and heads over to her bed. As she passes the mirror, she catches a glimpse of the scars on her abdomen and legs. She pauses then eyes them a bit longer.

Badges of survival. Every single one of them. She doesn't regret one of them, not one. She grabs her dressing gown and slips it on, tying the belt. She kneels down reaching under the bed for her suitcase, then when she has hold of it pulls it out.

Moran pushes her tightly packed clothing to the side and takes out two compact black cases. She goes over to the small table, sits down, and opens the case on the table.

The first one she opens, she removes her combat knives and sheaths. As she sits, she straps each sheathed knife to an ankle. She had not been feeling truly comfortable without the feeling of those two against her skin. She then removes her pistol, a MAC-50, checks the cartridge, then slides it back into place, setting it on the table. Then she opens the second case, and with care takes out the pieces of her favorite weapon, her Sako TRG 42 sniper rifle.

She strokes her modified scope with laser sighting with fondness, and then starts to put it together.

"I thought his orders said not to kill Holmes and Watson."

She glances at her pistol and wonders if she could get away with shooting him.

No. Messy. Too much time to clean it up.

"They are."

"And yet-"

"Best be ready," she says shortly. "I have a feeling I'm going to need these ready. Thanks to that housekeeper and her horror story."

"How do you think that?"

"I don't think, I know, you moron. Didn't you see Holmes? Those wheels are spinning. I know that look. I've seen it on the boss. He's going to look into it. He's going to end up themselves killed, so I might as well make sure that doesn't happen," she says with disgust. "Boss wanting them alive and all."

"Oh."

God, how did she get stuck with him? Oh, yes, because she messed up at the pool, she concedes bitterly. First time she ever did while in his employ. She paid the price for it.

Viktor Porter.

Of course, she can blame Holmes and Watson for that.

Maybe she can get away with shooting one of them... although she had to make sure it would cause no permanent damage. Boss wants them in top shape before everything starts.

* * *

><p><strong>Location: Baskerville Hall Library<strong>

**Time: 2pm**

**Date: November 20th, 2010**

* * *

><p>Sherlock reaches out to take out the book that has caught his interest, when he hears footsteps enter the library.<p>

He sniffs and recognizes the cologne, even from this distance.

"Mr Baskerville."

"How did-"

"Your cologne," Sherlock answers without looking up as he takes out the book. He looks over at the man standing just meters away now, with the look of a man about to ask him for his help.

He comes down from the small step-ladder.

"How can I help you Mr Baskerville?"

"My sister.. she told me about how you saved her neck. How you work. What you do. I took a look at your website as well."

"So you looked me up. Anything interesting?" Sherlock asks as he peruses the next shelf.

"That you can solve the impossible."

"Nothing is impossible, Mr Baskerville. The answers to the supposed impossible are usually quite simple."

"I want.. I need your help. I promised Danielle I wouldn't snoop anymore. If anyone can do it, and do it without getting themselves killed, you can."

Sherlock's hand pauses in its reach for the book that caught his eye, and he turns sharply to face the man.

"What do you need my help for?" Sherlock asks, yet he already knows.

"I want you to investigate the fire and the deaths."

Oh..this will not make John happy.

Sherlock hesitates. He so wants to do this. He wants to look into it, to crawl through the journals and articles, and discover what others must have unknowingly or knowingly stumbled across.

However, the refusal is at the tip of his tongue.

Strange.

This will be looked into later.

"I can give you access to what you need. Evelyn's journals, Theresa's journal.. Uncle had it stored in the attic with the rest of her things. Even a ride to the ruins. Anything you need," Gregory Baskerville adds in a desperate tone, taking Sherlock's silence as a refusal.

His thoughts about John will have to wait.

"Excellent. Show me."

* * *

><p><strong>Location: On the grounds of Baskerville Hall<strong>

**Time: 2:20 pm**

* * *

><p>The young man runs the last twenty yards, brimming with excitement. He had not been seen, which was excellent. It was necessary to remain unseen, something he was constantly being told.<p>

It was too. He was able to overhear everything without getting caught. Plus he was able to get into the rooms too. What he found in one of the rooms... He'll have to tell them. Then he'll tell them what he heard.

They won't like what he heard though. They had ben quite relieved when they heard Ms Baskerville order her brother off it.

So what he found first, then the news. His duties can go toss for now.

He jerks open the door and races down the stairs, ignoring the smell for once. He skids into the simply furnished room, two others in there, one sharpening the knife, the other feeding...

One of them starts to howl but is stopped short by a sharp smack. Despite the precautions made to prevent the sounds reaching the outside, everyone still exercised caution.

"What is it?" A sharp voice asks.

"I searched the rooms."

"And?"

"Nothing in Sherlock Holmes and John Watson's room that is useful."

A huff of annoyance.

"But the other.. that Moran woman.."

"Yes?"

"Guns. I saw them, she hid them well, but I found them," he says proudly.

"Hmmm. That woman...an odd one. Guns you say? How many?

"Just two. No idea what kind of course."

He's stared at now. "You heard something boy. What did you hear?

He grins.

"That's the good one. Your learning. What did you hear?"

"He's gone to Sherlock Holmes."

"Bloody hell."

A snarl forms from the cage then, and the young man who had overheard the conversation between Mr Baskerville and Sherlock Holmes cringes away from the snarling animal.

He could hear the other snarls as well, as well the sound of meat being tossed into the cages.

"How long before you think he finds out?"

"Not long," comes the cold response barely heard among the almost thunderous snarls and growls between two of the animals fighting over the meat. "He works quickly. If Baskerville gives him access to everything..."

"Stop him," the chilling, commanding voice growls, and the young man flinched at the voice. The voice of the Devil indeed.

"He hasn't gotten anywhere yet," the young man protests. "He just accepted it."

"If Sherlock Holmes is on it, then we have to act quickly," the authoritative voice growls. "Quicker than ever before."

"We can't, not during the day. Too many witnesses."

"It'll be storming again tonight, we will do it then. We hunt Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson. Tonight."


	7. The Pieces Of The Puzzle

**Title: The Hounds Of Baskerville- A Different Take (Part 2 Of A Different Take Universe)**

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters that are part of the BBCverse of Sherlock.**

**Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Original Male&Female Characters, S. Moran**

**Genre: Mystery, Suspense, Drama, Angst, General, Friendship**

**Warnings: Death, Language, Violence throughout the story. Nothing major in this chapter.**

**Spoilers: The Hounds of Baskerville is the title of the second episode (or episode 5) of Season 2.**

**Summary: It's November. Sherlock has hit a wall in his research on Moriarty. John has had enough. He needs a holiday. They bloody both do. Over-riding Sherlock's objections, John arranges for a holiday at a country getaway called The Baskerville Hall, (an open ended offer that Sherlock had received from a case ages ago) in the Dartmoor area of Devon. Unfortunately, John finds out that even having a holiday with Sherlock bloody Holmes doesn't go the way it should. **

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 6- <strong>

**Pieces Of The Puzzle**

**Location: The Walking Trails **

**Time: Just a few minutes after Sherlock&Baskerville's talk**

* * *

><p>"So you write about urban legends do you?" John asks Rachel Gordon as they walk through one of the longer trails.<p>

"We started to create a book about them two years ago. Lauren and I got the idea to do one when we ended up breaking down in California with several of our other friends. While the mechanical ones fixed the cars, we ended up trading legends that we've all grown up with."

John nods.

"We've been all over now," she continues without missing a beat. "First we travelled throughout the States. Then we went to Germany, Spain, and France so far. We learned about their own legends and such. We found an article about the Curse here, and decided we had to come."

"So it certainly sounds as if you and Ms Chase have had quite the time together."

"Call her Lauren. She hates Ms Chase. Please, call me Rachel as well."

John smiles. In quite the small amount of time, he has come to like the two Americans. The two women are opposites in every way yet, somehow ended up dear friends. While Lauren was the wise and serious one, Rachel was far more on the carefree, chatty, friendly side. John clearly sees that they in a sense represent Sherlock and his friendship.

Although a less dramatic representation. He doubts they have a madman threatening to kill them both.

"So, I got a question. If it is too nosy, then you can just tell me to bugger off. That is the right phrase from what I understand."

John chuckles as they walk over a small bridge built over the shallow stream and they keep on the path. "Go ahead."

"How long have you and your partner been together?"

John caught the way she said partner. Anyone else would have just answered the question, not realizing what the person was truly asking. With almost a year of practice, John knows what they are asking.

"We've been flat-mates and colleagues for almost a year now. We're not.. together in the sense you think of," John says quickly. When this is over, a phone call to Sarah will be in order.

Rachel Gordon then turns a bright shade of red. "Me and big mouth," she mutters, obviously embarrassed. "Sorry, even Laura thought you two were.. well you know. She just did not say anything, but I had to open my big mouth."

"It is all right," he assures her, seeing her embarrassment and not wanting to extend it.

"Oh well then, so you are not.." She smiles in a sheepish manner.

"I do have a girlfriend though."

She sighs. "And Sherlock?"

"Other than our friendship, he is not one for anything more. He is pretty much married work," John adds deciding to use Sherlock's words from that most awkward conversation they had way back.

"Just my luck," she says with resignation. After a moment, she brightens. John hears them first, before seeing them.

John spots some animal, although they all scatter when they see them. A few deer go from still to lightning fast in seconds, and John swears he catches sight of a fox before the flash of red is out of sight.

"I got a couple of pictures," Rachel says with a grin. "I always like mementos."

* * *

><p><strong>Location: Attic<strong>

**Time: 4:30 pm**

**Date: November 20,2010**

* * *

><p>Sherlock turns a box around, and then pushes it to the side. He had been up to this attic now for ten minutes, trying to get Evelyn Baskerville's journals and personal items. '<p>

After a trip to the ruins of the old Baskerville home, which lasted about a half hour, Sherlock made his way back here. During his trip, he had come across what he thinks will be a gem of a find. He had not gotten a chance to open it before he heard Baskerville coming back to the ruins with the car. The man left so Sherlock would not have a witness to him illegally entering the ruins.

No time to follow the rules. Rules are deadly boring as they take all the fun out of things.

He had walked carefully through it all of course. Very few had walked through here in the past.

Sherlock found it lying near the rear end of the ruins, never seen of course until his own eyes found it. A metal box, very old, mostly obscured by brick. He extracted it, then tucked it in his coat.

Now it was burning a hole in his pocket, calling to him, so he can see what is inside.

First he must find Evelyn Baskerville's things.

Sherlock steps over several items, some lamps shoved up here, then moves a cradle out of the way. He sees a pile of boxes in a corner now, and he immediately heads to them.

In a matter of five minutes, he finds three of Evelyn's boxes, and then with some time, he found a box of Theresa Baskerville's things.

Useless..useless... not even going to bother... useless... no.. no... no..

Sherlock does not find anything until he gets to the bottom and finds two journals.

The first one Theresa Baskerville's, as her initials in white lettering on the back.

Sherlock feels the aging leather as he picks up the other journal. He sniffs the skin of them. Leather bound. He feels the paper between the covers.

Early nineteen hundreds. Nineteen twenties perhaps.

Sherlock stares at the journal, then remembers Eliza Barrymore speaking about a married couple, friends of the family that died in nineteen twenty-nine.

They died before being able to develop their research according to the story told.

Supposedly.

Thinking he has what he needs for now, he leaves the attic to head back to his room. If he needs anything else, he knows where to go.

He comes out of the attic, then pushes the ladder back into place. Sherlock pauses as he senses someone behind him and quickly turns. He scans the person in front of him, deductions coming to him in seconds.

A teenager with brown hair and grey eyes. Not quite yet twenty. Smell of horses. He works at the stables. There's also another light smell.. animal, but what?

"I saw the ladder down," the teenager explains in a rush. "No one goes up there much, wanted to see."

Not quite lying.. but not telling the truth either.

"I have permission to do so," Sherlock says bluntly. "You are?"

"Paul Barrymore. I'm the nephew of Eliza Barrymore. I live with her."

Orphaned.

"Parents died when I was six. I have lived with her ever since."

"I see. Good day then, Mr Barrymore." Sherlock quickly dismisses him to head towards the library, time to do some work.

* * *

><p><strong>Location: Library<strong>

**Time: 30 Minutes Later**

* * *

><p>Sherlock stares at the pieces he laid out on the table next to him. He had used the table to lay out all the pieces into place, for it all to make sense. It would not make sense to anyone else, yet he could see it all so clearly.<p>

Several journals all laid out. All of them belonging to those now dead. Another item laid to his right, a book about hounds.

All helping put this puzzle together, including one surprise.

He always loved educational surprises.

Sherlock especially the ones that had such excellent information.

A treasure trove of such information laid to his right, responsible for the start of everything.

It was Thaddeus Baskerville's journal, the surviving brother of Hugo Baskerville. Further helping with this delightful mystery, were the two journals of Theresa and the Winthrops. The Winthrops had written their theories in it, same with Theresa.

The was also the old plans of the original house were off to the side, confirming what Sherlock needed after reading some of Thaddeus's journal.

Theresa found the Winthrop's journal, had written in her own personal one that when she had searched the woods during the day, in the location where the Winthrops had died. She had discovered the item in an opening of a tree, stuffed in there, according to what she wrote.

The ultimate gem however.. the best that shined the brightest was Thaddeus's own personal journal.

Sherlock did find it a little disappointing that he found everything so quickly. The drama of the mystery kept him from being totally disappointed.

There was just one unsolved question.

Who the killers are.

He already figured out the how. The one constant in all the stories. The howling. There is someone here has hounds hidden from everyone and trained to kill.

"Sherlock?"

He ignores the voice, the evidence streaming in his head as all the facts start working together. He just has to bloody figure out who the killers were. Obviously people who either lived in one of those tiny little towns throughout, or on the outlier towns...

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock jumps as he hears his name called. The voice finally penetrating his thoughts and he whirls to see John standing in front of him, frowning a little.

"What time is it?"

"Almost six."

"How many breeds of hounds do you think are there?"

His flat-mate gives him an odd look as if trying to figure out what is going.

Oh come on, John, hurry up. Focus!

"No idea."

"At least sixty-four last count. They have three types of hounds before branching out in different breeds. Sight hounds, scent hounds and the unimaginatively titled other. Scent hounds-"

"They use their keen scent to track animals or people that may be missing."

"They have endurance but are not fast runners. So the sight hound and the other category, take them out of the running. What we have is the scent hound. They are fast, bred predominantly to run after the game, and keep it in sight. Scent hounds also catch and kill game themselves. They would be the only type that would maul on orders. Now there are only fourteen different breeds of sight-hounds, so the trick would be narrowing down which breed. One would think. Most of these breeds cannot be found in the U.K. So, if one wanted to raise and train a group of hounds to run down quarry, corner them and then kill on command, you would have to go local. It would be cheaper at least."

Before Sherlock can continue, John raises a hand, a gesture he needs to stop. Usually he ignores it and keeps going until has nothing left to say. This time he stops.

"Are you doing what I think you are doing?" John sounds like a cross between annoyed and incredulous.

"Gregory Baskerville had asked me. I could not refuse. I needed a stimulant as my boredom was reaching very drastic levels. Now, back to the topic at hand. So how many breeds of sight-hounds are in the UK. Precisely, there are the three of them. There is the Scottish Deerhound, the Irish Wolfhound and the Whippet." Sherlock pauses. "Well make that two found in the U.K, one found in the Republic of Ireland."

"I see. Sherlock did you take on a case?"

"Yes, I know, you wanted us both to relax, and not have anything to do with dead people or thefts, or anything resembling a case. If I must repeat myself, then I shall. My boredom was getting drastic. I accepted a request. You can yell at me later if you like."

"I'll hold you to that," John says, sounding grumpy, but comes over to the table. All the facts continue speed around with all the facts he has gleaned, glad that he held off John's lecture for now. "I see you have been busy."

"I put together more in a couple of hours than I doubt anyone else had, but that is due to all this lovely information. So which dog do you think it is?"

"You're asking my opinion?"

"I see."

"Which ones again?"

"That would be the Irish Wolfhound, the Scottish Deerhound and the Whippet. Well, take out the Whippet. Which of the two perhaps?"

John shakes his head. "Can't decide. Both breeds are easy-going, gentle, friendly by nature. Only way to do this is to warp them, corrupt them from birth."

"Precisely, killer dogs bred specifically to continue the so-called curse, all of it going over one hundred years. The owners to this day keeping up the tradition."

"Perhaps a combination of the two? I expect when they howl together, it would sound like it was not of this world.

Sherlock runs that through his mind. After a few seconds, he nods. It works.

"So, what did you find out from all the journals?"

Sherlock smiles at the restrained curiosity in his friend. "A lot. Sit down, let me explain."

* * *

><p><strong>Twenty Minutes Later<strong>

* * *

><p>"You sure about this?" John asks slowly once Sherlock finishes the story he worked out.<p>

Sherlock nods, jumping up in the recliner that was by the large table, placing his elbows on his knees, as he rubs his head with one hand.

"Of course I am. I may have one thing off on it, but never can discount that one thing. Quite annoying. Those are the facts though."

"Okay, so we have reason for the fire. We have the reason they are continuing, passing this on to the next generation. We have an explanation for the hounds. No explanation on the Devil," John says dryly, "or who the killers are."

"They are near..." Sherlock mutters as he jumps out of the chair, then begins to pace on the rug. "Able to know when someone is snooping, in constant contact with the hounds... Gods it is right there.. think..."

"Well they would have to have the hounds in a place that has some sound blocking in place. Maybe in an underground basement of some sort that has a tunnel to the top so that they can set the hounds after the poor sod. To handle and work with animals.. Sherlock... Sherlock... what is it?"

Sherlock locked on to something he had deduced earlier, but had dismissed at the time.

The smell.. it was dog.

Ohhh... stupid! It was staring right at him!

Sherlock staggers a bit, all of it all coming down hard. "Oh, so brilliant! Clever, clever," he claps his hands. "Perfect set up.. perfect. Ohhhh," he spins around, all the pieces starting to fall together. "But.. there's another. Another not seen.. others in plain sight.. but this one hides... this one with the Devil's voice... John! Oh so perfect!"

"Sherlock, Sherlock, what's perfect?"

Sherlock grabs his coat. "You have your gun?"

"Strangely, yes."

"It's not strange at all. You started having it on you since you moved in with me. You put it in your room. Go get it, we're going to need it. I know where to go." Sherlock pushes a protesting John out of the library.

"Come on, we only have a few minutes to get this confirmed, quickly!"


	8. The Pros And Cons Of Snooping

**Title: The Hounds Of Baskerville- A Different Take (Part 2 Of A Different Take Universe)**

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters that are part of the BBCverse of Sherlock.**

**Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Original Male&Female Characters**

**Genre: Mystery, Suspense, Drama, Angst, General, Friendship**

**Warnings: Death, Language, Violence, **

**Spoilers: The Hounds of Baskerville is the title of the second episode (or episode 5) of Season 2.**

**Summary: It's November. Sherlock has hit a wall in his research on Moriarty. John has had enough. He needs a holiday. They bloody both do. Over-riding Sherlock's objections, John arranges for a holiday at a country getaway called The Baskerville Hall, (an open ended offer that Sherlock had received from a case ages ago) in the Dartmoor area of Devon. Unfortunately, John finds out that even having a holiday with Sherlock bloody Holmes doesn't go the way it should. **

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 7-<strong>

**The Pros And Cons Of Snooping**

**Location: Baskerville Hall Grounds**

**Time: Nearly 6 pm**

**Date: November 20th, 2010**

* * *

><p>"So there are five guest houses, that can hold up to six guests each."<p>

John nods as there is no need to say anything. He knows Sherlock now is trying to eliminate buildings so that the search won't take long. He does want to indicate that it's getting dark. Not pitch black yet, but it is, and he hears thunder clouds in the distance.

"So we can rule them out. We can rule out the main building. Too much of a chance for someone one to notice something odd, or the smell. I mean several dogs at once being held... if it's sound proof, yes you may not hear them, but you can still smell them."

John nods one more time as Sherlock looks at him.

"So what we have left are six employee cabins. Five them have three employees in each. Most are not here due to not being needed due to the renovations going on."

"What about the sixth cabin?" John speaks up this time. "Sherlock, sun's almost completely set and storm clouds are rolling in," he also adds.

"I know. Sixth cabin is the home of Eliza Barrymore and her nephew. 600 meters to the right of the main building," Sherlock points towards a home. "Then we have the tool shed, which is large enough I suppose, about 600 meters to the left. So it could be either of those two."

"You already have an idea on which one it is then." John does too, ever since Sherlock explained what the journals pieced together.

"So do you. No one will be there now. All are inside, helping with the cleaning and such. We just need to get inside, find a way to get evidence of the dogs and then work out the best way to expose them."

"Right." John exhales. "But would it be best to check the other one out, if perhaps they were clever?"

"True," Sherlock begins striding towards the tool shed, and John catches up. Sherlock bends down to pick the lock, withdrawing his lock picks and John quickly stands guard, hiding the consulting detective from view. Even though there isn't anyone on the grounds, on the ready.

* * *

><p><strong>Hallway of Baskerville Hall<strong>

**Time: Just at 6pm **

* * *

><p>Sébastienne Moran stares out the window, watching the doctor act as as look out. She had just passed this window, where she caught sight of Sherlock Holmes and his guard dog, Watson, striding towards what was the tool shed.<p>

Part of the investigation? She knew that Sherlock had a chat into with Gregory Baskerville about the curse. She had tracked them to the ruins, and then caught a little of their conversation on the way back.

While continuing to watch, the door to the shed opens. The hunched figure of Sherlock Holmes enters. Her trigger finger itches. She wants to get out her rifle and take aim. She was the best sniper in the special forces of France. She still consider herself the best, even though she is not in the military anymore.

The sound of her mobile ringing makes her start. She didn't think it to ring now. The sky started darkening then notices storm clouds rolling in. Usually the reception went to hell about then.

"Moran." She answers briskly, knowing that she needed to take advantage of it now before she lost the chance to.

A cough. A crackle on the line indicating the poor reception. "Progress?"

"They got roped into investigating the curse."

"Make sure they stay alive then."

She wished she could put her other eye on them.

"I know you want to make up for what happened at the pool, Moran, my pet. You are. You will also get your chance, eventually. Not now though."

"Can I kill Porter at least?"

She hears the boss chuckle at that. "Not yet." The reception crackles again.

"Reception is going down the toilet."

"I will make this quick. Your recommended doctor is coming by for a check up on my progress. I simply wanted to make this call before he did. I have sent a file on Porter's phone. Once this little holiday is over, that needs to be handled. Quickly.

"Yes, sir."

"Good." More crackling. "Moran, I know you did what you thought was right at the pool. Keep those two alive, take care of the matter on the file, then come back to me. We have a some needed touches to put together before the final game starts."

"You can count on me. You know that." Finally, a little validation for what she had done.

She hears him laugh. "Oh I know."

* * *

><p><strong>Location: Outside<strong>

**Time: 10 past 6pm**

* * *

><p>John relaxes his position as Sherlock locks the tool shed door.<p>

"Just as I thought. Nothing. Time to go to the other one."

"Best get it done quickly then, before we get caught in the rain," John points to the now thunderous looking clouds, with some rumbling accompanying them.

Sherlock nods and strides forward, John following and keeping an eye out once more.

First when John realized that Sherlock took on the case, he wanted to lecture. He wanted to be upset. Sherlock knew it, and held it off, telling him to call him out later on it.

Although now John doesn't feel up to it The gleam, the spark in Sherlock that is usually there no matter the situation had dulled considerably since they came here. Guilt had crept into him when Sherlock explained what the journals revealed when they were in the library, that spark coming back quite ruthlessly.

_"Gregory Baskerville asked me to. I could not refuse. I was in need of a stimulant, my boredom was reaching very drastic levels."_

Boredom.

The enemy of one, Sherlock Holmes.

For most, boredom did not result in shooting walls, trying to find new experiments, harassing the Yard for fun, occasionally haunting the morgue for stimulating cases (John was still curious about the history between Sherlock and that one mortician...) or pester Molly Hooper at St Barts.

John doesn't live with those people though.

_It was either shooting up the wall or shooting up cocaine._

He can live with the other alternatives. He'd be damned if he came home to Sherlock doing that. He can deal with a lot of things, but.. not that. Never that.

_"All that matters to me is the work. Without it, my brain rots."_

John thinks, after nearly a year, he finally understands now. He'll tell Sherlock that later. He can only imagine what Sherlock may say.

Probably something around the lines that he was slow in understanding.

"John."

John shakes his head, chasing the thoughts away to focus on the present. Hell. Great job he was doing.

"Sorry, mind was elsewhere."

"Obviously," comes the sharp response. "Focus, John."

"Right." He stands guard as Sherlock picks the lock to the Barrymore's cabin.

It only takes a few minutes to get inside. The locks on the door being no match for Sherlock's lock-picking talent.

Everything looks normal on the inside. Simple furniture. No telly, but plenty of books lining the walls. Clean. Pictures on the wall of Eliza Barrymore. A young man with two other people.

"Her nephew, his parents are dead. He works at the stables," John hears Sherlock whisper. He just nods.

Everything looked.. normal.

The crawling in his skin said it was anything but that. Instinct makes him draw his gun.

"John," he hears Sherlock murmur and he looks to the right to see a staircase leading downwards.

He didn't see the staircase when he first entered, but he figured that was the point. There, but not automatically seen by everyone who enters.

They head downstairs, and as they go down to the bottom the smell reaches his nose, and he makes a face.

"Dog," he hears Sherlock mutter as they go further into the room.

John catches a glint of metal, almost entirely covered by large blankets. He makes out cages lining the wall of one end of the room. He hears a familiar snuffling noise. His dog always did that when he slept.

"Five cages," Sherlock whispers. John knows he's trying not to wake the dogs. They can't see them but, as Sherlock would say, it's obvious. "Large enough for two dogs each."

Ten hounds all bred to kill. A line that were specifically for that purpose. To hunt down, to keep in sight, to terrify their victims fleeing from their howls and into the woods. Only to kill with a command.

Sympathy wells up in John for those unfortunate souls. So cruelly killed because they wanted to solve a mystery.

"So, you were right," John murmurs. "It is Eliza Barrymore."

Sherlock opens his mouth but quickly shuts it. The abruptness of it combined with another crawling sensation goes up John's spine as he realizes that they are not alone.

"Partially right," a cold, commanding, chilling voice says from behind them both. "But not just Eliza, you nosy idiots."

John and Sherlock share a look.

Shite.

That's the last thought John has before his head is suddenly hurting like hell, and blackness soon follows.

* * *

><p><strong>Location: Inside Baskerville Hall Main Building<strong>

**Time: 6:20 pm**

* * *

><p>Moran hears footsteps from her position. She takes a moment to look out from under the stairwell. Good he's coming.. without a clue in the world.<p>

At times, they can be her favorite targets. The look of surprise on their faces is almost as fun as the dread and fear that appears when they know they are going to die.

Almost.

The look of dread and fear she prefers.

She hears the thunder boom, and the lights flicker. Perfect setting for a horror story.

The footsteps get closer. Twenty seconds before they reach her.

This one needs is going to have a lesson about snooping.

Moran raises her knee, reaching down to take out one of her combat knives. She counts down to the last second, then she grabs him. She cuts off his yelp of surprise with her other hand and then shoves him against the wall, blade against his throat.

"Vous peu de merde," she swears at him in french, and he blinks, a little fear in those grey eyes.

_Yes, fear me young one._

"You've been snooping," she snarls. "I've seen you around, trying to hide, trying to sneak around. Well you're an amateur dear. You almost got away with it, but my things still were not put back in the right spot." She confronted Porter about it a few minutes before thinking he messed with her guns, but he had not. This brat here was the culprit, she knew it. "What do you know? What are you trying to find out?"

"I found out enough to know you aren't here for a holiday. Your or your companion." the teenager says with a tremor in his voice. She presses the blade against the skin, not quite cutting yet. "I overheard your phone calls. You were spying on them just as we were."

"My reasons are none of your concern-" She snarls, the desire the cut this boys throat pulsing inside her.

Suddenly she hears a click of something going off, followed by a sharp prick in her neck.

"Wrong move to make my dear," she vaguely hears as Moran touches her neck and feels a dart in it.

_Merde_ is all she can think before blackness takes hold.

* * *

><p><strong>Location: Barrymore's Basement<strong>

**Time: Hours Later- Unknown**

* * *

><p>Oh his head hurts.<p>

John comes awake, slowly, to a pain in his head. He feels dried blood on the side of his face.

A groan escapes before he can stop it. John carefully opens his eyes, blinking.

It takes a few seconds, through the pain, to realize he's in a chair.

Takes about twenty seconds to realize he's tied to a chair. The pain starts to wane a bit, now just to a dull throb. John hears Sherlock moan next to him. Carefully looking up, he notices he's in the basement still, and then sees Sherlock next to him, a cut on his temple as he comes out of his own daze.

A movement near him gains his attention. He looks over to see...Sébastienne Moran, starting to come to from the looks of it.

_Why is she here?_

"Sherlock."

"Are you all right John?" Sherlock asks as he raises his head.

"Other than a splitting head."

"He hit us with a shovel."

"That's what I thought I felt..." John murmurs. Well, once again, being tied to a chair appears as the standard operating procedure for the criminals that cross their paths.

A friendly little reminder of that case involving with the University students and the robberies in Chelsea.

He hears Moran groan, then come to thoroughly as she raises her head.

Brown eyes blurred with confusion. The confusion does not last long. Within seconds, her eyes are clear. Moran makes a few movement, and sighs. She apparently has come to the same conclusion they came to earlier.

"When we get out of this," she says hoarsely, "I'm shooting one of you."


	9. The Story Comes Out

**Title: The Hounds Of Baskerville- A Different Take (Part 2 Of A Different Take Universe)**

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters that are part of the BBCverse of Sherlock.**

**Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Original Male&Female Characters**

**Genre: Mystery, Suspense, Drama, Angst, General, Friendship**

**Warnings: Death, Language, Violence, **

**Spoilers: The Hounds of Baskerville is the title of the second episode (or episode 5) of Season 2.**

**Summary: It's November. Sherlock has hit a wall in his research on Moriarty. John has had enough. He needs a holiday. They bloody both do. Over-riding Sherlock's objections, John arranges for a holiday at a country getaway called The Baskerville Hall, (an open ended offer that Sherlock had received from a case ages ago) in the Dartmoor area of Devon. Unfortunately, John finds out that even having a holiday with Sherlock bloody Holmes doesn't go the way it should.**

**A/N: If anyone tried reading the story earlier and wound up confused, apologies. I was reloading chapters. A lot of editing mistakes were pointed out and I wanted to get them taken care of before I put my next chapter up.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 8<strong>

**The Story Comes Out**

**Location: Barrymore's Basement**

**Time: Unknown**

**Date: November 20 or 21st, 2010**

* * *

><p>Sherlock ignores the possibility of being shot. He's heard it plenty of times, so far no one has fully succeeded with it.<p>

"Why are you here?" John asks her stiffly.

_The shoulder could be bothering him. Or his leg. Might be his head too._

Sherlock only had time to land one punch at the older man, who hit John with a shovel. The man took the hit with ease, and then simply swung the shovel at him.

"Does it matter?" She snarls.

He hears movement in the cages behind her.

"Because she's a snoop just like you two," Sherlock hears the voice of Paul Barrymore declare. The dogs in the cages begin to growl and bark then.

Only to be silenced to by a voice, another familiar one. A mere few seconds later Eliza Barrymore comes into the room. She has a bucket in her hand and Sherlock can smell the meat. She glares at them all, then yanks the blanket covering the cages down.

The dogs react to the sight of the Sherlock, John and Sébastienne Moran as Sherlock expects. They start snarling, and one starts on an impressive howl.

Sherlock tests the rope used to tie his hands and feet to the chair.

_Thin, but strong. They wrapped it around his wrist three times. Same for his ankles._

"I think that's the pot calling the kettle black," Sébastienne Moran drawls. "I'm not the one searching people's bedrooms."

"Shut up," Eliza Barrymore snarls. The firm but somewhat friendly manner has disappeared. No need to keep up appearances here. She tosses some meat into the cages. The dogs all fight over it. Sherlock recognizes the two breeds that he and John narrowed down.

"What do you have there?" Sherlock hears John ask. He looks over to see the younger Barrymore dropping what looks like black cases onto a dirty table.

"If you caused any damage to my babies you will suffer," Moran promises.

"How?" Paul smirks. "You look a bit tied up now to do that."

"Did you search her?" The cold commanding voice calls out. Footsteps echo. The snarls of the dogs quiet and then the man that clocked Sherlock and John with a shovel enter. Eliza Barrymore moves back in deference, while Paul stays where he is.

_Tall. Lean. Strong. Silver hair. Unusual eye color... a blood red. Not contacts. A defective gene in the family genetics. The eye color fits with the voice, the appearance. Twenty years older than Eliza at least. Father._

"Are we meeting the Devil now?" Sherlock drawls.

The older man smiles.

"Hadrian Barrymore," he says. Sherlock notices Paul flinch. While he admits the voice can be unnerving, that the man himself is as well, he does not feel any fear.

Then again he is not running through the woods, his life at stake, his imagination running wild.

"An interesting name. Passed on down the line I assume?" Sherlock queries. He recognizes the first name from Thaddeus's journal. "You are a descendent of Hadrian Berrymoor," he emphasizes the difference between the last names. "The brother of Lavinia Berrymoor."

"I see you figured it out boy," he growls. He glares at Paul. "I said did you search her?"

"No, sir."

"Then do it, you idiot!"

Paul skitters towards Moran, who has stayed silent during this. The teenager pauses before her, obviously a bit unnerved by her stare, but he does what he is told.

Sherlock sees him produce a knife sheathed to an ankle, for combat, no doubt. Paul stands up and goes over to the table, where the older Barrymore is removing the contents from the cases.

"Interesting guns, woman. Military issue."

Moran does not respond, just glowers at all of them.

"I had my daughter look them up after Paul described them to us. Only way you get these if you served."

"She did. For the French," Sherlock butts in, unable to help himself. He looks at the weapons. From the pieces laying out one appears to be a sniper rifle, the other a pistol.

He's reminded of John's service pistol. Which he then sees is also on the table.

Two former military members still holding onto their service weapons.

"So, boy, care to tell me what found out?"

"Why bother?"

"Humor me," he says, his dark red eyes flashing over to him. For the first time, Sherlock feels a little uneasy. He hates that feeling. He tests the validity of the rope once more.

"Tell him Sherlock," John says quietly.

"Fine. Thaddeus Baskerville had an affair with Lavinia Berrymoor, a servant to the Baskervilles. It resulted in a child. She bore him a son. Hugo Baskerville found out, threatened to toss Thaddeus and Lavinia out if they dared to marry. He wanted no scandal to the family name. He gave money to the Berrymoors, telling them to leave and never come back."

The old man chuckles, a sound that would unnerve anyone else. Sherlock can see that it was bothering John a little. No effect on Moran.

"Thaddeus went into a fit of rage. He loved Lavinia. He was incensed at his brother's attitude. He felt he had been ripped to shreds for trying to do the honorable thing. He tacked down the Berrymoors, and then brought them back, hiding them in a house not too far away. They hatched a plan. They bought some hounds, trained them from when they were pups to do to Hugo Baskerville what he had done to Thaddeus. Two years of plotting. Thaddeus confronted Hugo Baskerville one night. It ended in shouts, Hugo telling him to get his things, leave and never come back. Thaddeus left and came back with the killer hounds. Then Thaddeus and the Berrymoor's set fire to the home once the dogs killed Hugo and his wife."

The current Hadrian Barrymore grins as Eliza and Paul remain silent in the background.

"Well done boy," he drawls. "Very well done. Your reputation proceeds you."

"Thank you."

"Not quite the honorable thing to do," Moran says scathingly.

Dark red eyes dart to hers. She does not flinch. Sherlock is not surprised.

"Thaddeus Baskerville was far more honorable than Hugo," he snarls. Eliza and Paul both flinch, inching further away from the man.

"Plotting a murder I think outweighs what Hugo did," John says quietly. "I understand the motivations, but Thaddeus went too far."

"Thaddeus was a good man. A decent man," Eliza insists from her spot. "He had to watch over his own son from a distance instead of doing what he wanted. Thanks to the survivors of the family."

"Pity, how dare they survive," sarcasm falls from Sherlock with ease. "So Lavinia, Hadrian, and her son plotted to make sure no one would ever find out. If they did, then they knew what to do."

"Indeed. They set out to continue the line of the hounds, training new generations. Lavinia's son changed our surname just enough to keep people from making the connection. When he married they returned to the Baskervilles to work for them. Best way to keep an eye on things. They were right to be paranoid."

"Elizabeth Baskerville."

All three of the Barrymore's nod.

"Your eyes, your voice.. all genetic," Sherlock states, not asking. He does not need to. "Lavinia's brother was the first. He was the one that Evelyn Baskerville had heard that night. Lavina's son somehow had the same defective genes, and such they were passed on. Not every male perhaps, as Paul here seems to have escaped it. But your eyes and voice, with the presence of the hounds, helped continue the story of the Devil and His Hounds."

"If people did not continue to snoop," Hadrian growls, sounding like the dogs.

"Alas, one cannot help the potent curiosity that drives others."

John snorts, Sherlock ignores it.

"So why are we not being released, forced to run into the woods? To be hunted down and mauled?"

"I don't run as well as I used to, and Paul here has as a streak of yellow in him," Hadrian says with disgust. He turns and walks over to the cages. The hounds stand as the man reaches in and scratches one head. He withdraws his hand and then turns.

"HUNT!" He bellows, and pandemonium erupts as the dogs bash against the cages, howling and snarling.

Sherlock forces his fear back to recesses of his mind. He must remain calm and focused. He sees John shut his eyes, as if that will help him. Meanwhile, Moran, who has her back to the dogs, does not react. At all.

"ENOUGH!"

It is like a switch. The dogs suddenly stop, start to whine.

"DOWN!"

The dogs obey, all of them laying on their haunches as they stare at Sherlock, John and Moran.

"How nice," Moran says, sounding bored. "Excellent show of mastery."

If it wasn't for the obvious fact that Hadrian Barrymore was going to release the hounds on them, and Sherlock hadn't found a way to weaken the rope, he would be bored to.

"Killing us won't solve anything. Danielle and Gregory will be searching for us," John comments.

"Gregory will put Danielle off, since he was the one that dragged Sherlock into this. I think I'll have him meet your fate after we are done with all of you. As for you, Miss Moran, your partner is currently in Exeter, dealing with car troubles. He won't be able to help you. Nor will your boss."

Boss?

"She's been following you," Paul Barrymore suddenly speaks up. "Keeping an eye on you both. Talking to someone on her mobile about you."

Sherlock stares at her, thoughts racing through his brain as to the why. His legendary focus right now is a bit stunted as he had been primarily focused on what was going on now. His current thoughts on this new development were not connecting properly.

Sometimes his hard drive needs a bit more space.

"You know eavesdropping is a terrible habit," she says coldly. "It can get you killed."

Sherlock hears the force behind those words. She means it.

"You do the same thing," Paul counters.

She rolls her eyes, then turns to Hadrian Barrymore.

"As for your earlier comment, I don't need Porter's incompetent help," she snarls, her earlier calm now gone. Sherlock sees Hadrian Barrymore hit a nerve. "You think you scare me with this? Do you think I hadn't been tied up before or threatened with death? Well, let me tell you something," she drawls, her french accent more pronounced now. "I've stared death in the face for months on end without any hope. You may think of yourself as a big bad killer, but I got news for you. You're nothing compared to me. Or my boss."

"Is that so?"

"Just so," she hisses.

Sherlock stays quiet, his fascination with this keeping him from making any comments. He notices John is watching too, not with fascination like him but with speculation. He sees the wheels turning in his colleague's head just as they are in his own.

He knew she was military, but her responses, her actions from earlier, show that she had to be specialized at least. Army or Marines. That means she served in Afghanistan or Iraq.

_I've stared death in the face for months on end without any hope._

Not something one says lightly.

_Prisoner of war. She was captured at one time. A long while. Eventually released. A trade perhaps? Or did she kill her way to freedom?_

His eye catches the pieces of her sniper rifle. Specialized forces. So she's a sniper.

Sherlock's train of thought shudders to a halt.

He remembers the last time he had a run in with a sniper.

Snipers, he corrects himself, remembering the near dozen of laser sights that were on John and him during their stand off with Jim Moriarty.

Moriarty.

Sherlock stares at her then, all his deductions connecting like mad.

Her eyes connect with him then. Cold, hard, dark brown eyes. Eyes of a killer.

Former military.

She'd been following them. Keeping an eye on them.

Sniper.

Has a boss. Clearly a feared one.

Only one explanation makes any sense at all.

She.. she works for...

A sudden strangled sound from John ends up penetrating Sherlock's mind and he turns his head to look at him.

The horror on John's face confirms that his friend and colleague has just come to the same conclusion Sherlock did.

Sherlock stares back at the woman in front of them. Her expression says she knows they figured it out.

"Well this is amusing," Hadrian Barrymore says, noticing now what is playing out. "What did I miss?"

"Say it," Moran says coldly.

"You work for Moriarty," Sherlock flatly states.

Her smile is all the visual confirmation he needs.

Hell.

* * *

><p>Author's Note: Hope everyone is enjoying this. Once more I give thanks to everyone for the feedback. It helps greatly.<p> 


	10. Always Take The Assassin Seriously

**Title: The Hounds Of Baskerville- A Different Take (Part 2 Of A Different Take Universe)**

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters that are part of the BBCverse of Sherlock.**

**Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Original Male&Female Characters**

**Genre: Mystery, Suspense, Drama, Angst, General, Friendship**

**Warnings: Death, Language, Violence. All in this chapter. **

**Spoilers: The Hounds of Baskerville is the title of the second episode (or episode 5) of Season 2.**

**Summary: It's November. Sherlock has hit a wall in his research on Moriarty. John has had enough. He needs a holiday. They bloody both do. Over-riding Sherlock's objections, John arranges for a holiday at a country getaway called The Baskerville Hall, (an open ended offer that Sherlock had received from a case ages ago) in the Dartmoor area of Devon. Unfortunately, John finds out that even having a holiday with Sherlock bloody Holmes doesn't go the way it should.**

**Author's Note: Heh, yeah I know. Title is a little long. Feedback appreciated and always loved.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 9<strong>

**Always Take The Assassin Seriously When She Says She Is Going To Kill You**

**Location: Barrymore's Basement**

**Time: Unknown**

**Date: November 20th/21st, 2010**

* * *

><p>John stares at the woman. Her smile confirming what Sherlock just said makes the drama of what was going on now fall to the wayside.<p>

Even the dogs, looking ready to maul them to death, was not important at the moment.

A mixture of fury and fear rises up in John. She was one of the snipers that night at the pool. She was possibly one of the people that abducted him when he was on his way to Sarah's.

She may have even been in the room, amongst the shadows, when John had come to, and heard the voice in his ear.

"Johnny boy," He hears her drawl, using the nickname that Moriarty used. His skin crawls. He stares at her, feeling transfixed. He hears amusement in her words now, can see it on her features. "Oh Johnny boy, don't be alarmed. I am not here to kill either one of you."

"No, you're just watching us," Sherlock snaps. "Waiting for the word to kill us."

"Well, that's true. I can't wait to use my special eye," she says with a smirk. "Thing is, I've been watching for a long time now. I'm surprised you haven't noticed.. then again both of you have been rather consumed with your precious cases." Her smirk widens as she looks back at John. "All that precious military training, that keen sense of knowing when someone is watching you, that's gotten a bit rusty hasn't it Johnny boy?"

"Quit calling me that," John growls out, barely able to stand hearing the words.

"Brings back memories hmm?"

"Well," one of the Barrymore's speak up then, clearly fascinated by this whole thing, "this is rather interesting I do admit. But we need to get on-"

John looks over to see Eliza Barrymore trailing off, a sound interrupting everyone. He notices it is her mobile buzzing. She scowls at it and takes a closer look.

"How on earth anyone is up at this time is beyond me," she says, sounding quite put out.

"Take care of it," Hadrian growls.

"I don't want to miss anything."

"You won't. We'll wait until you return."

She grins, looking pleased. John's not surprised. The enjoyment she was clearly showing at their predicament, he was sure that she was corrupted enough to enjoy watching people be mauled to death. Eliza leaves the room, and Hadrian turns his dark red eyes on the three of them.

"I think I'll take a nap until she returns," he says lazily. "You three can hash out whatever this is." He glares at Paul Barrymore. "You stay here and keep an eye on them. Holler if anything happens."

John takes a deep breath and looks upward, counting to ten as he hears Hadrian Barrymore leave the room.

He hears Sherlock moving, or in this case, trying to move. He's most likely testing the rope. John was doing that when Sherlock was relaying what he figured out to the Barrymores. Strong rope, but with some time, it can be weakened.

"You were one of the snipers at the pool."

John looks away from the ceiling at Sherlock's statement. He looks over at Moran.

"Not one of the snipers, the only sniper, dear Sherlock."

John frowns. "I saw at least a dozen laser sights on us."

She smirks. "I know." She looks over at the boy standing by the table. "Paul right?"

"Yes."

"Since you so nicely brought my weapons here, and your aunt dumped out the pieces to my rifle, look for a small round item, right next to the scope," she nods to a spot on the table. "It'll look like a small flashlight I suppose."

They watch as Paul looks over the items in front of him, and he hesitantly picks one item up.

"Right one. Come stand right behind me. About a meter behind."

Paul gives her an odd look. She just smiles. "Oh come on, just to pass the time."

"No funny business," he murmurs."

"On my mother's grave," she says solemnly.

The teenager comes over and does what she asks, staying about a meter behind her.

"Now, smooth your finger down the side of it, until you feel a button. It'll be small."

"I feel it."

"Good. Now raise it above my head. Then angle it about three centimeters, so it'll be pointing directly at their chests."

Paul raises, and then frowns as he angles it. "I'm not sure if I have the right angle."

"Then we'll work together," Moran says in a friendly voice, although John can see that friendliness is clearly not there. He also notices she's doing something... "Press that little button."

He does, and several little lights turn on around the circular part of the laser sighting.

"Oh angle it another centimeter," she murmurs, "Ah... that's it."

John looks down at himself, then at Sherlock. Several different red lights are dancing on them.

Just like the pool.

"That's enough now, thank you."

Paul takes the laser pointer off of them and then ambles back over to the table.

"My own little invention. Quite neat is it not? Of course, there's no practical need for a sniper to use a laser sight. You only see that in fiction and movies. But to keep the civilian bombs in line it was quite useful. Same at the pool."

"Inventive," Sherlock says dryly.

"I know."

"So you work for him."

"Yes. In fact, I'm his primary sniper. He has others of course, but he prefers me."

"Why?" John speaks up then. "Why work for him?"

She raises an eyebrow. "You of all people, asking me why I work for-"

"A madman."

She grins. "Oh spare me. Don't judge me, Johnny boy. Look next to you. You live and work with a madman. The only difference between my boss and your boss-"

"He's not my boss."

"Oh right, colleagues," she says with a heavy sarcasm. "Stop deluding yourself. You are me. You what he tells you to do, you follow him, you keep your eye for danger, you protect him. You're not a colleague. You are his guard dog." She pauses. "We can be so loyal to our pets."

John flashes back to the memory of him holding Moriarty, telling Sherlock to run and Moriarty saying that very same thing. He glances at Sherlock and he sees the man staring at a point on the wall. Closed off.

"I know what I am. I accept it," Moran continues. "I've worked with him a long time now, almost a year and a half now. He found me after I was medically discharged."

The doctor in John rises up and despite himself asks the question. "For what?"

"She was a prisoner of war," Sherlock speaks up then, in a toneless voice. "Most likely has physical and mental scars. She was held for a long time, too much of a risk to put back into action, to keep in active services. Held by Al Quedia or the Taliban possibly."

"Well, well, you are good, aren't you? Yes, I was a prisoner of war. Yes, I have plenty of physical scars. It was the Taliban, by the way. Afghanistan." She glances at John. "I have to say when the boss looked you up once he realized that it was you that killed Jefferson Hope he was pleased with all our similarities."

"Similarities?" John chokes out. "We're nothing alike."

"Wounded in action, war veterans. Afghanistan. Bodyguards to a genius. Willing to kill for said genius. We have a lot in common John Watson."

"Except you protect a murderer."

"Semantics," she shrugs. "Sherlock protects a murderer too. You."

John's thrown by that, unable to form a response.

Moran smirks. "Jefferson Hope."

"Serial killer. He took lives."

"He took lives to ensure his kids would have money for the future," she counters. "Edmund Rhydderch."

"He was going to kill Sherlock. A Serial killer. He killed several families before that."

"Patrick Chrichton," Moran counters quickly, referring to the man that was the killer in the case that Sherlock's mum was brought in.

"Self defense," John counters in return. "He would have shot me and Sherlock."

"So they deserved to die is that it?"

"There was no other option."

She scowls. "That's the doctor in you speaking. Playing God. Deciding that there isn't an option, so doing what he thinks is the right course. According to your record, you're a crack shot. Good with a gun. Could have wounded them, but you aimed straight for the heart."

John never felt guilty each time he took a life since meeting Sherlock. He knew was in the right each time. Self defense, or to protect Sherlock. The only reason he hid in the background in the aftermath was because he wasn't supposed to have a gun. But with her words, guilt started to creep in.

"You're one to talk," Sherlock says derisively. "John did what was needed in the course of protecting others. You killed that old woman and several other people in that block of flats. No doubt you are used for the murders that people come to Moriarty about as well." John is surprised by the heat in Sherlock's words.

"John killed because there was no other option. You kill because you enjoy it. So don't try to say you two are the same. John is an entirely different person. The only thing you two have in common is the unfortunate history of serving in the military."

Sherlock's words ease the guilt that started to creep into John and rationality takes over then.

"Also, he is not a pet, or a guard dog. Whatever you want to term it. He is not you. John is more than what you can simply understand."

John doesn't know what to think about that. Truthfully, he felt like a bodyguard to Sherlock at times. He needs one.

John notices the calculating look in Moran's eyes. She's taking note of everything Sherlock says. Without a doubt, this is going to be reported to Moriarty. A growl in the background makes John notice the dogs once more. Well if they can get out of this without being mauled to death that is.

"Oh this is getting quite tiresome," she sighs irritably. "I really want to shoot one of you, but I don't want my boss annoyed with me. I just got done with being punished for what happened at the pool."

John frowns. He and Sherlock still haven't been able to remember much.

"Memories haven't come back yet? Well don't worry. You two didn't cause that explosion. That was me. There was a fail safe, another bomb underneath all of you. I had the trigger. When I saw Holmes start to move the gun from the bomb, because lets face it a bullet wouldn't trigger it, I knew he would aim for the boss," she explains casually. "I also knew that setting off the fail safe would prevent a shot from hitting him. I couldn't take a shot at you when there was a chance for the boss to get hit."

"So you triggered a hidden bomb."

"Right. Fifteen second timer. I had a man rushing to the pool to get the boss. He grabbed him and the bomb vest just as it went off."

"So he was hurt," John states. He notices Sherlock smiles at that.

"He's healed," she states flatly. "And ohhhh he is so pissed at the two of you." Moran laughs. "You're going to love what he has in store."

A chill goes down John's spine. What the hell is that psychopath planning now?

"If you say so," Sherlock says in a bored tone.

Moran just chuckles at that. John frowns as he notices something odd drop to the floor behind her. Was it a piece of rope?

"Hope your conversation is done," Hadrian Barrymore's voice booms out as he suddenly appears in the room. "Because there's a mauling to be had. Boy, Eliza should be coming to the door soon. Go upstairs to let her in. I have to do some blood letting."

"Yes, sir," Paul swallows visibly and John watches as the teenager scatters out of the room. He tenses as he watches Hadrian Barrymore take one of the knives that belong to Moran off the table.

"The dogs get a bit extra wild when they smell blood," Hadrian says with a wicked grin.

"Really?" Moran's voice is cold now. "I have to be first, do i?"

"Only polite."

"Well, Hadrian Barrymore, it has been interesting meeting you. I just have one thing to say though. If you'll let me have some last words?"

John looks over at Sherlock then, and notices that he's staring at the floor under Moran's chair. John notices another piece of rope.

"What would that be?"

"When I kill you, I'm going to make you fucking squeal like a stuck pig."

Hadrian laughs and John can't help but flinch at the sound of it. Then all of a sudden, there's a gasping squeal and John opens his eyes to see Hadrian Barrymore now on his knees, doing what Moran said he would do.

He sees Moran get to her feet, twist the knife in the mans side, causing him to squeal (as she would put it most likely) in pain. She yanks the knife out, and John can't look away as she slices the man's throat.

"I said I was going to make you squeal," she drawls amused.


	11. And The Bonds Grow Stronger

**Title: The Hounds Of Baskerville- A Different Take (Part 2 Of A Different Take Universe)**

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters that are part of the BBCverse of Sherlock.**

**Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Original Male&Female Characters**

**Genre: Mystery, Suspense, Drama, Angst, General, Friendship**

**Warnings: Death, Language, Violence. **

**Spoilers: The Hounds of Baskerville is the title of the second episode (or episode 5) of Season 2.**

**Summary: It's November. Sherlock has hit a wall in his research on Moriarty. John has had enough. He needs a holiday. They bloody both do. Over-riding Sherlock's objections, John arranges for a holiday at a country getaway called The Baskerville Hall, (an open ended offer that Sherlock had received from a case ages ago) in the Dartmoor area of Devon. Unfortunately, John finds out that even having a holiday with Sherlock bloody Holmes doesn't go the way it should.**

**Author's Note: Okay, so this is the final chapter. And it's quite long. It wouldn't stop for the life for me. John and Sherlock just took completely over. So, pardon the length, and I hope you enjoy. Once more I thank everyone for following the story, for your comments and feedback. It's always appreciated, enjoyed and treasured. **

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 10-<strong>

**A Bond That Grows Stronger Than Ever**

**Location: Barrymore's Basement**

**Time: Unknown**

**Date: November 20th/21st, 2010**

* * *

><p>Sherlock watches as Hadrian Barrymore makes a rather disturbing gurgling noise and then as Sébastienne Moran takes a step back, he falls to the floor dead.<p>

Unable to help himself, he watches the blood trickle down from the knife and onto the floor, joining the pool that spills out from Barrymore's wounds. The dogs start to bark and howl then, as Moran casually makes her way over to the table and picks up a pistol.

Not John's.

Speaking of John...

Sherlock looks over at his friend, and sees John has closed his eyes. While John has demonstrated he can kill to defend himself or others, Sherlock knows that he is not the cold killer that Moran is.

Nor is he the guard dog that Moran described him to be.

"What the hell is going on? Father?" Sherlock hears Eliza call out amongst the barks and howls. Moran just simply checks the magazine in her gun, and then loads with a couple simple clicks.

The clicks apparently get John to open his eyes just as Eliza comes into the basement. She shrieks in horror at the sight of her father on the ground. She runs over to him, kneeling down.

"Idiotic bitch," Moran snarls and aims.

Eliza jerks to her feet and turns. "You!"

Moran smirks and fires twice.

Two shots. One in the heart, one in between the eyes. Eliza falls down dead. The racket from the dogs making it difficult for Sherlok to think. He closes his eyes. He need to focus, concentrate. Too much noise, too much going on. He can't think! All he can do is hear.

And hear he does.

He does hear the boy, Paul, cry out Eliza's name. He hears footsteps running down.

He hears John cry out. "No! He's just a child!"

"Not an innocent one," he hears Moran retort.

"No, please, don't kill me!" He hears the boy plead.

Sherlock hears two gun shots, and John cursing at Moran. John. Wanting to protect those who he thought was innocent, even though Paul was part of it all.

He then hears five more shots ring out. Then he hears the yelps of dogs being shot. He hears the sounds of a pistol being reloaded. She most likely has extra cartridges in the gun cases. Someone like her would be prepared like that.

The gun shots continue until silence falls. She had killed the Barrymores, and she just killed their hounds.

Silence now.

Sherlock can think now. He opens his eyes to find Moran crouching down in front of him, looking at the mobile Eliza Barrymore had.

"Bitch had a phone that could actually work in these storms," she says in a digusted tone. "While ours were shit. Some people just have all the luck." She sighs and then look at Sherlock.

"He needs silence to think to sometimes. I don't think you realize how much you and the boss have in common."

"You don't say his name."

She smirks. "Don't need to." She holds up a finger. "Lets hope the reception still works on this phone, yes? Then again, maybe the storm is over and that's why it worked earlier. Also it's almost five am.. we were here quite a while. " She dials a number and after a minute she starts talking. "Porter? Where are you? Exeter? Good... I don't care about the damn car. Get another one. We're done here. Call the boss, let him know we're coming back. Yes, call him because I don't have my mobile." She rolls her eyes and then hangs up the phone. "Idiot."

She sets her gun down and then picks up the knife. She does one cut to the ropes on his ankles, then straigtens and moves to the back of him, cutting the rope a little. She doesn't do it completely.

She wants enough time to get away. With the slight give to the ropes... five minutes tops for him to break them.

"How did you get free of your ropes?" Sherlock asks. He's a bit concerned about John's silence but he can hear him breathing and see him moving.

"They didn't remove my wrist band. I have a litttle surprise that can cut away at the ropes," Moran answers as she steps in front of them. She didn't cut any of John's ropes.

More time for her to run. It will take him a couple more minutes to undo John's bonds.

The gun shots continue until silence falls. She had killed the Barrymores, and she just killed their hounds.

Silence now.

Sherlock can think now. He opens his eyes to find Moran crouching down in front of him, looking at the mobile Eliza Barrymore had.

"Bitch had a phone that could actually work in these storms," she says in a disgusted tone. "While ours were shit. Some people just have all the luck." She sighs and then look at Sherlock.

"He needs silence to think to sometimes. I don't think you realize how much you and the boss have in common."

"You don't say his name."

She smirks. "Don't need to." She holds up a finger. "Lets hope the reception still works on this phone, yes? Then again, maybe the storm is over and that's why it worked earlier. Also, it's almost five am.. we were here quite a while." She dials a number. After a minute goes by, she starts talking. "Porter? Where are you? Exeter? Good... I don't care about the damn car. Get another one. We're done here. Call the boss, let him know we're coming back. Yes, call him because I don't have my mobile." She rolls her eyes and then hangs up the phone. "Idiot."

She sets her gun down and then picks up the knife. She does one cut to the ropes on his ankles, then straightens and moves to the back of him, cutting the rope a little. She doesn't do it entirely.

She wants enough time to get away. With the slight give to the ropes, possibly three minutes for him to break them.

"How did you get free of your ropes?" Sherlock asks, trying not to be worried about John's silence. Moran didn't hurt him, but he hasn't said a word since she killed Paul Barrymore.

"They didn't remove my wrist band. I have a little surprise that can cut away at the ropes," Moran answers as she steps in front of them. She didn't cut any of John's ropes.

More time for her to run. It will take him a couple more minutes to undo John's bonds.

"You know I wasn't at all surprised that Baskerville came to you. And that you took the case," Moran says in a casual tone, stepping over Paul's body. She goes over to the table, packing up her rifle. "Knew you wouldn't last long without working on a case. You were going to do something to relieve that boredom." She turns around. "I have to say that while the four of us have a lot in common, there is one thing about the boss that is completely different from you, Sherlock Holmes."

"What would that be?" Sherlock asks testily as he works the ropes. He certainly hates hearing that he and Moriarty are similar.

"Boss never did cocaine or any sort of recreational drug just because he was bored. That's why he thinks he's better than you. And I quite agree. You may be the world's only and greatest consulting detective, but you're not as quick as him. You can blame your little habit for that."

Sherlock clenches his jaw, not looking away from Moran despite feeling John's eyes on him. "I've been clean for over four years now."

"Still the addict," she says softly.

"I am not an addict," Sherlock stresses. Oh how he hates that word.

"Oh you are, only it's to your work now. It's the only thing preventing you from using again." She steps forward, gun in hand and points it directly at John's temple. John stills and fury begins to build in Sherlock.

He sees her smile then, chuckle. "Well, maybe not the only thing." She pulls the gun away from John and Sherlock feels relief swim through him.

The mobile in her hand rings stopping Sherlock from working on his bonds. Moran frowns at it, then answers.

"Hello?" she asks carefully. Her smile reappears, wider than earlier. "Why, yes. Yes they are...All in one piece...Wait, let me put you on speaker." She pulls the mobile away from her and then looks at it for a minute before pressing a button.

"You're on speaker."

"Sherlock, Johnny boy, how are my favorite people doing?" Moriarty's voice sings out over the line.

Sherlock feels a muscle in his cheek jump, sees John clench his jaw.

"What? Not going to answer me? How sad, especially after all the fun we had last time! Well, I will make this quick as my pet needs to get on the move. Sherlock," he says in an oddly scolding tone, "I thought I told you to back off my dear."

He knew then. He knew that Sherlok has been searching for him, using his resources and his contacts to find him.

"I'm disappointed. Daddy is not happy. You have not backed off. So I will just give you one little reprieve. You have a week Sherlock Holmes to call off your sniffers, all of them. Or what I have planned for you will go into play. And trust me, my dears," he sings, almost giggling now, "you would be wishing for the game we played last time! Well, with that said, I'm off now. Moran," his tone turns cold and sharp, and Sherlock notices how she instantly responds to it. "Get your ass back here." There's a click, then a dial tone.

She tosses the phone down next to the bodies of the Barrymores.

"Nice finally meeting you John Watson, Sherlock Holmes," she says with a smirk. "I'm sure we'll be seeing each other soon." Sherlock watches as she crouches down to meet John's gaze. They hold it for a few seconds, then she chuckles. Breaking away she goes over to the table, closes her case, and leaves the basement, heading up the stairs.

Sherlock takes a deep breath and starts breaking the ropes, almost frantically.

"Bloody hell," John swears.

"I concur.

* * *

><p><strong>Location: Baskerville Hall<strong>

**Time: 10 am**

**Date: November 21st, 2010**

* * *

><p>"That's.." Danielle Baskerville trails off, and just ends up staring at her tea, looking lost and bewildered.<p>

John understands. The Baskervilles were a family that had been around since she was born. She grew up around them. It would only be reasonable to be confused by all of this.

Once Sherlock had gotten free, then freed John, they escaped from the Barrymore's cabin and headed over to Baskerville Hall. By the time they had made it to the Hall, Moran was gone. She borrowed a car from Danielle, their hostess explained and left quickly.

Sherlock made a call to the authorities while John wearily explained what happened. His mind was still a bit scattered from everything he witnessed, mainly due to Moran's brutality. Then it became a bit chaotic for a few hours once the authorities arrived.

"I know," John says quietly, placing a hand over hers in comfort.

"All this because Hugo Baskerville refused to let his brother marry a servant."

"It would have been a huge scandal at the time," Sherlock says absently. "Not as much now, but back then..."

Danielle nods. "So they just kept on killing anyone who dared to try to find out," she lets out a sob. "I should have tried harder to convince Michael not to look into it... I should have helped maybe..."

"If you had, you would have died as well," John says gently, butting in before Sherlock would have said the same thing, just not with any gentleness. "Instead, you lived. Then came to London, wound up meeting Sherlock. Then later, I dragged him out here, and in the end, your husband, your mother, and all the prior murders had been solved."

"So should I think of it as fate?" Danielle comments in between broken, strangled sobs.

"I don't know really. I am sorry, Danielle for all the tragedies in your life."

"So am I. But I'm glad it's been solved," she sniffs. "Thank you, the both of you." She wipes away the tears falling down her cheeks. "So I imagine you two will be leaving today if you can."

"If you don't mind," Sherlock says brusquely.

"No.. might be best. You may have to stay a bit longer because of the police and all though. But maybe, another visit. This time without someone trying to kill you."

John and Sherlock smile at that.

"Danielle?" Gregory Baskerville calls out, stepping into the dining room. "The police need a word."

She nods. "Let them know I'll be a couple minutes. Need to freshen up."

"Right."

Danielle waits and when her brother leaves she turns to the two of them. "I am in your debt, both of you. Please don't hesitate to ask if you need anything in the future."

"We won't," John assures her. Her smile this time is a bit sad, and she heads out of the dining room.

"John?"

"Yes?"

"No more holidays, if you please."

John leans back in the chair. "Yeah, no more holidays."

* * *

><p><strong>Location: 221B Baker Street<strong>

**Time: 2pm**

**Date: November 27th, 2010**

* * *

><p>John trudges up the stairs with a couple bags from Tesco pausing once as he hears voices.<p>

After a moment, he recognizes Sherlock's voice. Then Mycroft's.

He finishes going up the steps, nodding to Mycroft when entering, then enters the kitchen to put away the food.

The past few days have been quiet. John knows that despite the warning Moriarty had given, Sherlock had not stopped. He was just being exceedingly careful about it. Even resentfully asking for his brother's assistance on this.

John thought it would be a cold day in hell before Sherlock asked Mycroft for help. From Mycroft's response, so did he.

"John, Mycroft has some information on Moran."

Moran.

Thanks to her, John has a new set of nightmares. He still rankled at the insinuations she made about him, about his relationship with Sherlock and his place with him. He still felt nauseated on how casually, callously, and methodically she murdered the Baskervilles, and then put down the dogs. Then Moriarty's little phone call. He kept flashing back to the pool when the madman spoke.

"John?"

"Yeah, I'm coming." John shuts the fridge and heads into the sitting room, noticing a file on Mycroft's lap. "So what do we have on Moran?"

"Sébastienne Maximilienne Moran to be precise," Mycroft says in his smooth, crisp voice. "Born on March fifteenth, 1973, so just a couple years younger than you, John. Parents Emeline and Claude Pierre Moran. She went to L'Ermitage in Paris, then went to University of Geneva in Switzerland for a year. Then went on to the University of Oxford. She did not finish her degree, even though she had been described as quite intelligent. She ended up getting recruited by the military of France. She joined the Marine Nationale, Navy to be precise. Her talents were soon discovered, and she was trained as a high range sniper and joined the Commandement des Opérations Spéciales," Mycroft pauses, then clears his throat. "Special Operations. She was part of the Counter-Terrorism and Liberation of Hostages Squad. According to reports she was the best sniper they had, until the unit she was in was ambushed in Afghanistan. Most were killed, she was taken hostage and was a prisoner of war for nine months. By the time she was rescued, a combination effort of our own Royal Marines, US Marines and Special Operations squad from France. There were several injuries. No gun shot wounds, but a lot of cuts along her abdomen and legs. She was essentially tortured for a long time."

"That would change anyone," John murmurs, irritated that he's feeling sympathy for the cold blooded killer he encountered.

"Yes, it would. She passed all the physical examinations after an extensive period of healing, but there were concerns of mental stability. So they discharged her. She was only discharged for two months when she just disappeared."

"Moriarty recruited her."

"It seems so, yes. I have been able to trace a good majority of recent deaths back to him. Or it must be him, because the trail goes cold right before I find the originator. Most likely she is the one, his trigger woman so to speak. Therefore, I would say she is the second most dangerous person you will ever meet in Moriarty's employ."

John doesn't disagree with that.

"Well, I have delivered what I promised. Believe me Sherlock, you are not the only one who is trying to track down Moriarty's criminal organization," Mycroft says firmly. "Several others take offense to what he has done and arranged. Terrorism is never taken lightly, especially these days. We may be closing in on one small circle of it, I will let you know how it goes." Mycroft stands. Sherlock has remained curiously silent throughout the whole discussion, and he barely acknowledges his brother.

"I will see you soon John," Mycroft smiles at him, and they shake hands. John waits until he leaves before taking the chair Mycroft vacated.

"You all right?" John asks.

"Hmm, oh yes, quite all right," Sherlock murmurs, then meets John stare. "Just wondering what Moriarty's next move is. I suppose I should call off my contacts as he said to."

"Since when do you do what people tell you to do? That's not the Sherlock I know."

Sherlock smiles a little at that. "The consequences are a little bigger than the norm."

"Because of the threat to me?"

"Obviously."

John nods. "Right. But you heard Mycroft. They may be closing in on them. Moriarty made a mistake by getting involved, too involved, at the pool. He can't be perfect. Moriarty will make another mistake. He's known now, no longer in the shadows."

"True," Sherlock muses.

Silence reigns for a few minutes, and then John finally asks the question that's been in the back of his mind for a few days now, ever since Moran mentioned it.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"Did you really do cocaine because you were bored?"

A pause. A sigh. "Yes."

John blinks. "Really?"

Sherlock nods. "I was introduced to it at Trinity, by the one person there I could consider a friend."

"Not much of a friend if he brought cocaine into your life."

"Hmm, no. I suppose not. But, Victor Trevor introduced me to it. I was quite bored that day, university already making the boredom even worse. I could barely tolerate going to classes anymore. Just six months in and I wanted out. But I stayed because of the expectation. Cocaine made it quite easier to handle the boredom, yet keep my senses and mind alert."

John was surprised by how much information he was getting. He figured he would only get a little, knowing that Sherlock would want him to talk about Afghanistan before he talked about his past with cocaine.

"I only made that little ultimatum, so I could control the situation," Sherlock admits, seeming to read John's mind once more. "I wasn't ready to talk about it yet, so I went for something I knew would make you back off."

"You succeeded admirably."

"I know."

"I still don't want to talk about Afghanistan."

"I know."

"Then why are you telling me about your affair with cocaine then?"

"Because I want to. Because you deserve to know. I want to state for the record, I am not an addict. I was never addicted," Sherlock says firmly, a little heat to his words. "I don't care what Mycroft, or Lestrade, or the idiots at the rehabilitation centers thought. I only used it. It helped relieve the boredom. It didn't affect me the same way it did everyone else. I was still able to focus, to observe, it just helped dull the sharpness of it all."

"Sort of like a glare screen that some people use for their desktops?" John asks. He understands a little. He figured not even drugs would have the typical result on Sherlock.

"If you want to put it that way," Sherlock shrugs. "I don't have the so called glare screen on now, so everything is..."

"In high definition. No wonder you're so cranky."

"I am not cranky."

"Yes, yes you are. "

"No I am not."

"Sherlock."

"All right, I can be."

John grins, a little surprised he can smile during this type of discussion.

"The only time I'm tempted to use now, is when the boredom gets to very bad levels. But I don't. It's why I shot up the wall. It's why I do endless research. I need something to occupy my mind when I am not on a case."

Now John understands. He does. It explains a lot actually. Possibly even the mood swings...

"She was right about one thing. Moran."

John frowns. "About what?"

"That the work is not the only thing keeping me from going back to my habit," Sherlock says quietly. "She proved it too."

"How?"

"When she pointed her gun at you."

John swallows.

"I felt rage, I don't feel it often, mind you. I felt it that night at the pool when Moriarty was using you as mouthpiece. But that she was threatening you like that, I felt it again. She was right when she said work was not the only thing."

John doesn't say anything. He feels.. quite humbled now.

"John, would you mind getting something for me?"

"Hmm? No, of course not."

"It's under the floorboards. You'll need to move the coffee table. You'll feel a loose board, lift it up and take out the small metal box under it."

What? John just stares at him for a minute, but with no explanation forthcoming, he gets up and goes over to the coffee table. He does what Sherlock says to do. It doesn't take him long to feel the loose floorboard, nor to lift it up. He sees a black metal case, half a meter in length and about fifteen centimeters in width.

He picks it up, puts the floorboard back, pushes the coffee table back to it's position and then goes back over to his chair.

"So what is this?"

"Open it and you'll see."

John hopes it's not a body part. He flips the latch and lifts the lid.

He sees a needle, a small vial, and what looks to be a folded photograph. He opens it and winces. It's a photograph of Sherlock.. not a terribly good one but, that is the point perhaps.

"I was telling the truth. I have not used in a little over four years now. But I've kept that as a reminder," John hears Sherlock say in a rush as he stares at the contents. "A reminder basically. In case my boredom got too much, I would open that box. I would look at the photograph. That photograph was taken by my brother when I was in the hospital after my dealer attempted to murder me with a tainted injection of cocaine. I would remember what Lestrade said, what my mother had said before Mycroft took me to my last rehabilitation center. It would remind me, that no matter how desperate I was to relieve my boredom, I would lose a lot. I could not afford to. I was stronger than that. I am stronger than that. My mind, my will, my focus, my body. Everything is stronger than that. I do not need nor want it."

"Right," John murmurs.

"I also know that on top of losing everything, if I even used once I would lose your friendship."

That would be true, John admits silently. He puts up a lot with and for Sherlock.. but, that would be something he undoubtedly would not.

"I want you to toss it out. Destroy it. Well not the photograph... you can keep that in case you need to use it. But the needle and drug, the case, toss it all. I don't need that as a reminder anymore."

"Why?" John looks up then, and his gaze locks with a pair of pale blue eyes, still cool, still sharp as ever, but there's something else there.

"Because I have you as a reminder now. Every day and night. Nothing would be stronger than that."

John swallows. He feels that bond between them, the bond that has grown and strengthened since that fateful first day at Barts, grow even stronger now.

Whatever the hell Moriarty is planning, there's nothing on this God given earth that will tear John away from Sherlock, not now.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: Part 2 of my A Different Take series is now complete. Reichenbach Falls will be soon following.<strong>


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